Ira  MEM( 
Mary  J.    L. 

OEIAM 
McDonald 

-.-  ...            

BUNKER  BEAN 


k" Every  time  I  get  alone  I  just  giggle  myself  into  spasms.    Isn't  it 
the  funniest?" 


BUNKER  BEAN 

BY 

HARRY  LEON  WILSON 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  SPENDERS,"  "THE  LIONS  OF  THE  LORD," 
"THE  Boss  OF  LITTLE  ARCADY,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATES*  BY  F.  R.  GRUGER 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1916 


Copyright,  1912,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1913,  "by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 
translation  into  Foreign  Languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


IN  '-MEMORIAL 


• 


To 
H.  G.  WELLS 


984475 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Every  time  I  get  alone  I  just  giggle  myself 
into  spasms.  Isn't  it  the  funniest?" 

Frontispiece 

PACK 

It  was  a  friendly  young  face  he  saw  there, 

but  troubled 68 

"I  feared  he  was  discommoding  you,"  ven 
tured  the  Countess,  elegantly  apologetic  92 

"Daughter!"  said  Breede  with  half  a  glance 

at  the  flapper 124 

In  that  instant  Bean  read  the  flapper's  look, 
the  look  she  had  puzzled  him  with  from 
their  first  meeting  .  .  .  .180 

"Oh,  put  up  your  trinkets!"  said  Bean, 

with  a  fine  affectation  of  weariness  218 

Thereafter,  until  late  at  night,  the  red  car 

was  trailed  by  the  taxi-cab  .  .  228 

"Lumbago!"  said  Bean,  both  hands  upon 

the  life-belt 284 


BUNKER  BEAN 


BUNKER  BEAN 


BUNKER  BEAN  was  wishing  he  could  be 
different.      This    discontent    with    himself 
was  suffered  in  a  moment  of  idleness  as  he 
sat  at  a  desk  on  a  high  floor  of  a  very  high  office- 
building  in  "downtown"  New  York.     The  first 
correction  he  would  have  made  was  that  he  should 
be  "well  over  six  feet"  tall.     He  had  observed  that 
this  was  the  accepted  stature  for  a  hero. 

And  the  name,  almost  any  name  but  "Bunker 
Bean!"  Often  he  wrote  good  ones  on  casual 
slips  of  paper  and  fancied  them  his;  names  like 
Trevellyan  or  Montressor  or  Delancey,  with  musi 
cal  prefixes;  or  a  good,  short,  beautiful,  but 
dignified  name  like  "Gordon  Dane."  He  liked 
that  one.  It  suggested  something.  But  Bean! 
And  Bunker  Bean,  at  that!  True,  it  also  sug 
gested  something,  but  this  had  never  been  any 
thing  desirable.  Just  now  the  people  in  the 
outside  office  were  calling  him  "  Boston." 

"Gordon  Dane,"  well  over  six  feet,  abundant 
dark  hair,  a  bit  inclined  to  "wave"  and  showing 
faint  lines  of  gray  "above  the  temples";  for  Bean 
also  wished  to  be  thirty  years  old  and  to  have 


4  BUNKER  BEAN 

learned  about  women;  in  short,  to  have  suffered. 
Gordon  Dane's  was  a  face  before  which  the  eyes 
of  women  would  fall  in  half-frightened,  half- 
ecstatic  subjection,  and  men  would  feel  the 
inexplicable  magnetism  of  his  presence.  He 
would  be  widely  remarked  for  his  taste  in  dress. 
He  would  don  stripes  or  checks  without  a  trace  of 
timidity.  He  would  quail  before  no  violence  of 
colour  in  a  cravat. 

A  certain  insignificant  Bunker  Bean  was  not 
like  this.  With  a  soul  aspiring  to  stripes  and 
checks  that  should  make  him  a  man  to  be  looked 
at  twice  in  a  city  street,  he  lacked  courage  for  any 
but  the  quietest  patterns.  Longing  for  the  cravat 
of  brilliant  hue,  he  ate  out  his  heart  under  neutral 
tints.  Had  he  not,  in  the  intoxication  of  his  first 
free  afternoon  in  New  York,  boldly  purchased 
a  glorious  thing  of  silk  entirely,  flatly  red,  an 
article  to  stamp  its  wearer  with  distinction;  and 
had  he  not,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  rented  room, 
that  night  hidden  the  flaming  thing  at  the  bottom 
of  a  bottom  drawer,  knowing  in  his  sickened  soul 
he  dared  not  flaunt  it  ? 

Once,  truly,  had  he  worn  it,  but  only  for  a  brief 
stroll  on  a  rainy  Sunday,  with  an  entirely  opaque 
raincoat  buttoned  closely  under  his  chin.  Even 
so,  he  fancied  that  people  stared  through  and 
through  that  guaranteed  fabric  straight  to  his 
red  secret.  The  rag  burned  on  his  breast.  After 
ward  it  was  something  to  look  at  beyond  the 
locked  door;  perhaps  to  try  on  behind  drawn 
shades,  late  of  a  night.  And  how  little  Gordon 


BUNKER  BEAN  5 

Dane  would  have  made  of  such  a  matter!  Floated 
in  Bean's  mind  the  refrain  of  a  clothing  advertise 
ment."  "The  more  advanced  dressers  will  seek 
this  fashion."  "Something  dignified  yet  differ 
ent!"  Gordon  Dane  would  be  "an  advanced 
dresser." 

But  if  you  have  been  afraid  of  nearly  every- 
thing  nearly  all  your  life,  how  then?  You  must 
be  "dignified"  only.  The  brave  only  may  be 
"different."  It  was  all  well  enough  to  gaze  at 
striking  fabrics  in  windows;  but  to  buy  and  to 
wear  openly,  and  get  yourself  pointed  at  — 
laughed  at!  Again  sounded  the  refrain  of  the 
hired  bard  of  dress.  "It  is  cut  to  give  the  wearer 
ike  appearance  of  perfect  physical  development. 
And  the  effect  so  produced  so  improves  his  form 
that  he  unconsciously  strives  to  attain  the  appearance 
which  the  garment  gives  him;  he  expands  his  chest, 
draws  in  his  waist  and  stands  erect." 

A  rustling  of  papers  from  the  opposite  side  of 
the  desk  promised  a  diversion  of  his  thoughts. 
Brnn  wan  n  hireling  and  the  person  who  rustled 
the  papers  was  his  master,  but  the  youth  bestowed 
upon  the  great  man  a  look  of  profound,  albeit 
not  unkindly,  contempt.  It  could  be  seen,  even 
as  he  sat  in  the  desk-chair,  that  he  was  a  short 
man;  not  an  inch  better  than  Bean,  there.  He  was 
old.  Bean,  when  he  thought  of  the  matter,  was 
satisfied  to  guess  him  as  something  between  fifty 
and  eighty.  He  didn't  know  and  didn't  care  how 
many  might  be  the  years  of  little  Jim  Breede. 
Breede  was  the  most  negligible  person  he  knew. 


6  BUNKER  BEAN 

He  was  nearly  nothing,  in  Bean's  view,  if  you 
came  right  down  to  it.  Besides  being  of  too  few 
inches  for  a  man  and  unspeakably  old,  he  was 
unsightly.  Nothing  of  the  Gordon  Dane  about 
Breede.  The  little  hair  left  him  was  an  atrocious 
foggy  gray;  never  in  order,  never  combed,  Bean 
thought.  The  brows  were  heavy,  and  still  cu 
riously  dark,  which  made  them  look  threatening. 
The  eyes  were  the  coldest  of  gray,  a  match  for  the 
hair  in  colour,  and  set  far  back  in  caverns.  The 
nose  was  blunt,  the  chin  a  mere  knobby  challenge, 
and  between  them  was  the  unloveliest  moustache 
Bean  had  ever  been  compelled  to  observe; 
short,  ragged,  faded  in  streaks.  And  wrinkles  — • 
wrinkles  wheresoever  there  was  room  for  them: 
across  the  forehead  that  lost  itself  in  shining 
yellow  scalp;  under  the  eyes,  down  the  cheeks, 
about  the  traplike  mouth.  He  especially  loathed 
the  smaller  wrinkles  that  made  tiny  squares  and 
diamonds  around  the  back  of  Breede's  neck. 

Sartorially,  also,  Bean  found  Breede  objection 
able.  He  forever  wore  the  same  kind  of  suit. 
The  very  same  suit,  one  might  have  thought,  only 
Bean  knew  it  was  renewed  from  time  to  time; 
it  was  the  kind  called  "a  decent  gray,"  and  it  had 
emphatically  not  been  cut  "to  give  the  wearer 
the  appearance  of  perfect  physical  development." 
So  far  as  Bean  could  determine  the  sole  intention 
had  been  to  give  the  wearer  plenty  of  room  under 
the  arms  and  at  the  waist.  Bean  found  it  dis 
gusting  —  a  man  who  had  at  least  enough  leisure 
to  give  a  little  thought  to  such  matters. 


BUNKER  BEAN  7 

Breede's  shoes  offended  him.  Couldn't  the  man 
pick  out  something  natty,  a  shapelier  toe,  buttons, 
a  neat  upper  of  tan  or  blue  cloth  —  patent  leather, 
of  course?  But  nothing  of  the  sort;  a  strange, 
thin,  nameless  leather,  never  either  shiny  or  quite 
dull,  as  broad  at  the  toe  as  any  place,  no  buttons; 
not  even  laces;  elastic  at  the  sides!  Not  shoes, 
in  any  dressy  sense.  Things  to  be  pulled  on. 
And  always  the  same,  like  the  contemptible  suits 
of  clothes. 

He  might  have  done  a  little  something  with  his 
shirts,  Bean  thought;  a  stripe  or  crossed  lines,  a 
bit  of  gay  colour;  but  no!  Stiff-bosomed  white 
shirts,  cuffs  that  "came  off,"  cuffs  that  fastened 
with  hideous  metallic  devices  that  Bean  had 
learned  to  scorn.  A  collar  too  loose,  a  black  satin 
cravat,  and  no  scarf-pin;  not  even  a  cluster  of  tiny 
diamonds. 

From  Breede  and  his  ignoble  attire  Bean  shifted 
the  disfavour  of  his  glance  to  Breede's  luncheon 
tray  on  the  desk  between  them.  Breede's  unvary 
ing  luncheon  consisted  of  four  crackers  composed 
of  a  substance  that  was  said,  on  the  outside  of  the 
package,  to  be  "predigested,"  one  apple,  and 
a  glass  of  milk  moderately  inflated  with  seltzer. 
Bean  himself  had  fared  in  princely  fashion  that 
day  on  two  veal  cutlets  bathed  in  a  German 
sauce  of  oily  richness,  a  salad  of  purple  cabbage, 
a  profusion  of  vegetables,  two  cups  of  coffee  and 
a  German  pancake  that  of  itself  would  have  dis 
abled  almost  any  but  the  young  and  hardy,  or, 
presumably,  a  German. 


8  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bean  guessed  the  cost  of  Breeders  meal  to  be 
a  bit  under  eight  cents.  His  own  had  cost  sixty- 
five.  He  despised  Breede  for  a  petty  economist. 

Breede  glanced  up  from  his  papers  to  en 
counter  in  Bean's  eyes  only  a  look  of  respectful 
waiting. 

"Take  letter  G.  S.  Hubbell  gen'  traffic  mag'r 
lines  Wes'  Chicago  dear  sir  your  favour  twen'th 
instant  — — •" 

The  words  came  from  under  that  unacceptable 
moustache  of  Breede's  like  a  series  of  exhausts 
from  a  motor-cycle.  Bean  recorded  them  in  his 
note-book.  His  shorthand  was  a  marvel  of  con 
densed  neatness.  Breede  had  had  trouble  with 
stenographers;  he  was  not  easy  to  "take."  He 
spoke  swiftly,  often  indistinctly,  and  it  maddened 
him  to  be  asked  to  repeat.  Bean  had  never  asked 
him  to  repeat,  and  he  inserted  the  a's  and  the's  and 
all  the  minor  words  that  Breede  could  not  pause 
to  utter.  The  letter  continued : 

" mus'  have  report  at  your  earl's'  conven 
ience  of  earnings  and  expenses  of  Grand  Valley 
branch  for  las'  four  months  with  engineer's 
est'mate  of  prob'le  cost  of  repairs  and  maintenance 
for  nex'  year " 

Breede  halted  to  consult  a  document.  Bean 
glanced  up  with  his  look  of  respectful  waiting. 
Then  he  glanced  down  at  his  notes  and  wrote  two 
other  lines  of  shorthand.  Breede  might  have 
supposed  these  to  record  the  last  sentence  he  had 
spoken,  but  one  able  to  decipher  the  notes  could 
kave  read:  "That  is  one  rotten  suit  of  clothes. 


BUNKER  BEAN  9 

For  God's  sake,  why  not  get  some  decent  shoes 
next  time  — — •" 

The  letter  was  resumed.  It  came  to  its  end 
with  a  phrase  that  almost  won  the  difficult  respect 
of  Bean.  Of  a  rumour  that  the  C.  &  G.  W.  would 
build  into  certain  coveted  territory  Breede  ex 
ploded:  "I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  conse 
quence!"  Bean  rather  liked  the  phrase  and  the 
way  Breede  emitted  it.  That  was  a  good  thing 
to  say  to  some  one  who  might  think  you  were 
afraid.  He  treasured  the  words;  fondled  them 
with  the  point  of  his  pencil.  He  saw  himsqlf 
speaking  them  pithily  to  various  persons  with 
whom  he  might  be  in  conflict.  There  was  a  thing 
now  that  Gordon  Dane  might  have  hurled  at  his 
enemies  a  dozen  times  in  his  adventurous  career. 
Breede  must  have  something  in  him  —  but  look 
at  his  shiny  white  cuffs  with  the  metal  clasps,  on 
the  desk  at  his  elbow! 

Bean  had  lately  read  of  Breede  in  a  newspaper 
that  "Conservative  judges  estimate  his  present 
fortune  at  a  round  hundred  million."  Bean's 
own  stipend  was  thirty  dollars  a  week,  but  he 
pitied  Breede.  Bean  could  learn  to  make  millions 
if  he  should  happen  to  want  them;  but  poor  old 
Breede  could  never  learn  to  look  like  anybody. 

There  you  have  Bunker  Bean  at  a  familiar, 
prosaic  moment  in  an  afternoon  of  his  twenty- 
third  year.  But  his  prosaic  moments  are  num 
bered.  How  few  they  are  to  be!  Already  the 
door  of  Enchantment  has  swung  to  his  scared 
touch.  The  times  will  show  a  scar  t>r  two  from 


io  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bean.     Bean  the  prodigious!     The  choicely  per- 
at  frolic,!     Bean  the  innocent 


Those  who  long  since  gave  Bean  up  as  an 
insoluble  problem  were  denied  the  advantages  of 
an  early  association  with  him.  Only  an  acquaint 
ance  with  his  innermost  soul  of  souls  could 
permit  any  sane  understanding  of  his  works,  and 
this  it  is  our  privilege,  and  our  necessity,  to  make, 
if  we  are  to  comprehend  with  any  sympathy  that 
which  was  later  termed  his  "madness."  The 
examination  shall  be  made  quickly  and  with  all 
decency. 

Let  us  regard  Bean  through  the  glass  of  his 
earliest  reactions  to  an  environment  that  was 
commonplace,  unstimulating,  dull  —  the  little 
wooden  town  set  among  cornfields,  "Wellsville" 
they  called  it,  where  he  came  from  out  of  the 
Infinite  to  put  on  a  casual  body. 

Of  Bean  at  birth,  it  may  be  said  frankly  that 
he  was  not  imposing.  He  was  not  chubby  nor 
rosy;  had  no  dimples.  His  face  was  a  puckered 
protest  at  the  infliction  of  animal  life.  In  the 
white  garments  conventional  to  his  age  he  was 
a  distressing  travesty,  even  when  he  gurgled. 
In  the  nude  he  was  quite  impossible  to  all  but  the 
most  hardened  mothers,  and  he  was  never  photo 
graphed  thus  in  a  washbowl.  Even  his  own 
mother,  before  he  had  survived  to  her  one  short 


BUNKER  BEAN  n 

year,  began  to  harbour  the  accursed  suspicion  that 
his  beauty  was  not  flawless  nor  his  intelligence 
supreme.  To  put  it  brutally,  she  almost  admitted 
to  herself  that  he  was  not  the  most  remarkable 
child  in  all  the  world.  To  be  sure,  this  is  a  bit  less 
incredible  when  we  know  that  Bean's  mother, 
at  his  advent,  thought  far  less  highly  of  Bean's 
father  than  on  the  occasion,  seven  years  before, 
when  she  had  consented  to  be  endowed  with  all 
his  worldly  goods.  In  the  course  of  those  years 
she  came  to  believe  that  she  had  married  beneath 
her,  a  fact  of  which  she  made  no  secret  to  her 
"mtimates  and  least  of  all  to  her  mate,  who,  it  may 
be  added,  privately  agreed  with  her.  Alonzo 
Bean,  after  that  one  delirious  moment  at  the  altar, 
had  always  disbelieved  in  himself  pathetically. 
Who  was  he  — •  to  have  wed  a  Bunker! 

When  little  Bean's  years  began  to  permit  small 
activities  it  was  seen  that  his  courage  was  amazing; 
a  courage,  however,  that  quickly  overreached 
itself,  and  was  sapped  by  small  defeats.  Tumbles 
down  the  slippery  stairway,  burns  from  the 
kitchen  stove,  began  it.  When  a  prized  new 
sailor  hat  was  blown  to  the  centre  of  a  duck-pond 
he  sought  to  recover  it  without  any  fearsome  self- 
communing.  If  faith  alone  could  uphold  one, 
Bean  would  have  walked  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters  that  day.  But  the  result  was  a  bald 
experience  of  the  sensations  of  the  drowning, 
and  a  lasting  fear  of  any  considerable  body  of 
water.  Ever  after  it  was  an  adventure  not  to  be 
lightly  dared  to  cross  even  the  stoutest  bridge. 


12  BUNKER  BEAN 

And  flying!  A  belief  that  we  can  fly  as  the 
birds  is  surely  not  unreasonable  at  the  age  when 
he  essayed  it.  Nor  should  a  mere  failure  to  rise 
from  the  ground  destroy  it.  One  must  leap  from 
high  places,  and  Bean  did  so.  The  roof  of  the 
chicken  house  was  the  last  eminence  to  have  an 
experimental  value.  On  his  bed  of  pain  he  realized 
that  we  may  not  fly  as  the  birds;  nor  ever  after 
could  he  look  without  tremors  from  any  high 
place. 

Such  domestic  animals  as  he  encountered 
taught  him  further  fear.  Even  the  cat  became 
contemptuous  of  him,  knowing  itself  dreaded. 
That  splendid  courage  he  was  born  with  had  faded 
to  an  extreme  timidity.  Before  physical  phe 
nomena  that  pique  most  children  to  cunning  en 
deavour,  little  Bean  was  aghast. 

And  very  soon  to  this  burden  of  fear  was  added 
the  graver  problems  of  human  association.  From 
being  the  butt  of  capricious  physical  forces  he 
became  a  social  unit  and  found  this  more  terrifying 
than  all  that  had  gone  before.  At  least  in  the 
physical  world,  if  you  kept  pretty  still,  didn't 
touch  things,  didn't  climb,  stayed  away  from 
edges  and  windows  and  water  and  cows  and  looked 
carefully  where  you  stepped,  probably  nothing 
would  hurt  you.  But  these  new  terrors  of  the 
social  world  lay  in  wait  for  you;  clutched  you  in 
moments  of  the  most  inoffensive  enjoyment. 

His  mother  seemed  to  be  director-general  of 
these  monsters,  a  ruthless  deviser  of  exquisite  tor 
tures.  There  were  unseasonable  washings,  dress- 


BUNKER  BEAN  13 

ings,  combings  and  curlings  — •  admonitions  to  be 
"a  little  gentleman."  Loathsomely  garbed,  he 
was  made  to  sit  stiffly  on  a  chair  in  the  presence 
of  falsely  enthusiastic  callers;  or  he  was  taken  to 
call  on  those  same  callers  and  made  to  sit  stiffly 
again  while  they,  with  feverish  affectations  of 
curiosity,  asked  him  what  his  name  was,  something 
they  already  knew  at  least  as  well  as  he  did;  made 
to  overhear  their  ensuing  declarations  that  the 
cat  had  got  his  tongue,  which  he  always  denied 
bitterly  until  he  came  to  see  through  the  plot  and 
learned  to  receive  the  accusation  in  stony  silence. 

Boys  of  his  own  age  took  hold  of  him  roughly 
and  laid  him  in  the  dust,  jeeringly  threw  his  hat 
to  some  high  roof,  spat  on  his  new  shoes.  Even 
little  girls,  divining  his  abjectness,  were  prone  to 
act  rowdyish  with  him.  And  this  especially  made 
him  suffer.  He  comprehended,  somehow,  that  it 
was  ignoble  for  a  man  child  to  be  afraid  of  little 
girls. 

Money  was  another  source  of  grief.  Not  an 
exciting  thing  in  itself,  he  had  yet  learned  that 
people  possessing  desirable  objects  would  insanely 
part  with  them  for  money.  Then  came  one  of  the 
Uncle  Bunkers  from  over  Walnut  Shade  way,  who 
scowled  at  him  when  leaving  and  gave  him  a  dime. 
He  voiced  a  wish  to  exchange  this  for  sweets 
with  a  certain  madman  in  the  village  who  had  no 
understanding  of  the  value  of  his  stock.  His 
mother  demurred;  not  alone  because  candy  was 
unwholesome,  but  because  the  only  right  thing 
to  do  with  money  was  to  "save"  it.  And  his 


I4  BUNKER  BEAN 

mother  prevailed,  even  though  his  father  coarsely 
suggested  that  all  the  candy  he  could  ever  buy 
with  Bunker  money  wouldn't  hurt  him  none. 
The  mother  said  that  this  was  "low,"  and  the 
father  retorted  with  equal  lowness  that  a  rigid 
saving  of  all  Bunker-given  money  wouldn't  make 
no  one  a  "Croosus,"  neither,  if  you  come  down  to 
that. 

It  resulted  in  his  being  told  that  he  could  play 
freely  with  his  dime  one  whole  afternoon  before 
the  unexciting  process  of  saving  it  began.  Well 
enough,  that!  He  had  grown  too  fearful  of  life 
to  lose  that  coin  vulgarly  out  in  the  grass,  as 
another  would  almost  surely  have  done. 

But  he  was  beguiled  in  the  mart  of  the  money 
changers.  To  him,  standing  safely  within  the 
front  gate  where  nothing  could  burn  him,  fall  upon 
him,  or  chase  him,  "playing"  respectfully  with 
his  new  dime,  came  one  of  slightly  superior  years 
and  criminal  instincts  demanding  to  inspect  the 
treasure.  The  privilege  was  readily  accorded,  to 
arouse  only  contempt.  The  piece  was  too  small. 
The  critic  himself  had  a  bigger  one,  and  showed  it. 
The  two  coins  were  held  side  by  side.  Bean  was 
envious.  The  small  coin  was  of  silver,  the  larger 
of  copper,  but  he  was  no  petty  metallurgist.  He 
wanted  to  trade  and  said  so.  The  newcomer 
assented  with  a  large  air  of  benevolence,  snatched 
the  despised  smaller  coin  and  ran  hastily  off — • 
doubtless  into  a  life  of  prosperous  endeavour. 
And  little  Bean,  presently  found  by  his  mother 
crooning  over  a  large  copper  cent,  was  appalled  by 


BUNKER  BEAN  15 

what  followed.  He  had  brought  back  "a  bigger 
money,"  yet  he  had  done  something  infamous.  It 
was  the  first  gleam  of  an  incapacity  for  finance 
that  was  one  day  to  become  brilliant.  He  came 
to  think  money  was  a  pretty  queer  thing.  People 
cheated  it  from  you  or  took  it  away  for  your  own 
good.  Anyhow,  it  was  not  a  matter  to  bother 
about.  You  never  had  it  long  enough. 

Then  there  was  language.  Language  was 
words,  and  politeness.  Certain  phrases  had  to  be 
mouthed  to  strangers,  designed  to  imply  a  respect 
he  was  generally  far  from  feeling.  This  was  bad 
enough,  but  what  was  worse  was  that  you  couldn't 
use  just  any  word  you  might  hear,  however 
beautiful  it  sounded.  For  example,  there  was  the 
compelling  utterance  he  got  from  the  two  merry 
gentlemen  who  passed  him  at  the  gate  one  day. 
So  jolly  were  they  with  their  songs  and  laughter 
that  he  followed  them  a  little  way  to  where  they 
sat  under  a  tree  and  drank  turn  by  turn  from  a 
bottle.  His  ear  caught  the  thing  and  his  lips 
shaped  it  so  cunningly  that  they  laughed  more 
than  ever.  He  returned  to  his  gate,  intoning  it- 
the  fresh  voice  rose  higher  as  the  phrasing  becanifc 
more  familiar.  Then  he  was  on  the  porch, 
chanting  as  a  bard  from  the  mere  sensuous  beauty 
of  the  words.  Through  the  open  door  he  saw 
three  faces.  The  minister  and  his  wife  were  call 
ing  on  his  mother. 

The  immediate  happenings  need  not  be  set 
down.  After  events  again  became  coherent  he 
was  choking  back  sobs  and  listening  to  the  minister 


16  BUNKER  BEAN 

pray  for  those  of  unclean  lips.  And  the  minister 
prayed  especially  for  one  among  them  that  he 
might  cease  to  pervert  the  right  ways  of  the  Lord. 
He  knew  this  to  mean  himself,  for  his  mother 
glared  over  at  him  where  he  knelt;  he  was  grateful 
for  the  kneeling  posture  at  that  moment;  he  would 
not  have  cared  to  sit.  But  all  he  had  learned  was 
that  if  you  are  going  to  use  words  freely  it  had 
much  better  be  when  you  are  alone;  this,  and  that 
the  minister  had  enormous  feet,  kneeling  there 
with  the  toes  of  his  boots  dug  into  the  carpet. 

No  sooner  was  this  language  spectre  laid  than 

another  confronted  him;  that  of  class  distinction., 

r  Certain  people  were  "low"  and  must  be  shunned 

\     by  the  high,  unless  the  high  perversely  wished  to 

N^  be  thought  equally  low.     His  mother  was  again  the 

'  arbiter.     Her  rule  as  applied  to  children  of  his  own 

age  wrought  but  little  hardship.     She  considered 

other  children  generally  to  be  low,  and  her  son 

feared  them  for  their  deeds  of  coarsely  humorous 

violence.     But  he  was  never  quite  able  to  believe 

that  his  father  was  an  undesirable  associate. 

In  all  his  young  life  he  had  found  no  sport  so 

good  as  riding  on  the  seat  beside  that  father  while 

he  drove  the  express  wagon;  a  shiny  green "wafolT 

^ with  a  seat  close  to  the  front  and  a  tilted  rest  for 

one's  feet,  drawn  by  a  grand  black  horse  with  a 

high-flung    head,    that    would    make    nothing   of 

eating   a   small   boy  if  it  ever  had   the  chance. 

1  You  drove  to  incoming  trains,  which  was  high 

adventure.     But  that  was  not  all.     You  loaded 

the  wagon  with  packages  from  the  trains  and  these 


BUNKER  BEAN  17 

you  proceeded  to  deliver  in  a  leisurely  and  impor 
tant  manner.  And  some  citizen  of  weight  was  sure 
to  halt  the  wagon  and  ask  if  that  there  package 
of  stuff  from  Chicago  hadn't  showed  up  yet,  and  it 
was  mighty  funny  if  it  hadn't,  because  it  was  or 
dered  special.  Whereupon  you  said  curtly  that 
you  didn't  know  anything  about  that  —  you 
couldn't  fetch  any  package  if  it  hadn't  come, 
could  you  ?  And  you  drove  on  with  pleased  indig 
nation. 

Yet  so  fine  a  game  as  this  was  held  by  his 
mother  to  be  unedifying.  He  would  pick  up  a 
fashion  of  speech  not  genteel;  he  would  grow  to  be 
a  "rough."  She,  the  inconsequent  fair,  who  had 
herself  been  captivated  by  the  driver  of  that  very 
wagon,  a  gay  blade  directing  his  steed  with  a 
flourish!  To  be  sure,  she  had  found  him  doing 
this  in  a  mist  of  romance,  as  one  who  must  have 
his  gallant  fling  at  life  before  settling  down.  But 
the  mist  had  cleared.  Alonzo  Bean,  no  longer 
the  gay  blade,  had  settled  down  upon  the  seat  of 
his  wagon.  Once  he  had  touched  the  guitar,  sung 
an  acceptable  tenor,  jested  with  life.  Now  he 
drove  soberly,  sang  no  more,  and  was  concerned 
chiefly  that  his  meals  be  served  at  set  hours. 

Small  wonder,  perhaps,  that  the  mother  should 
have  feared  the  Bean  and  laboured  to  cultivate 
the  true  Bunker  strain  in  her  offspring.  Small 
wonder  that  she  kept  him  when  she  could  from  the 
seat  of  that  wagon  and  from  the  deadening 
influence  of  a  father  to  whom  Romance  had  broken 
its  fine  promises.  Little  Bean  distressed  her 


1 8  BUNKER  BEAN 

enough  by  playing  at  express-wagon  in  preference 
to  all  other  games.  He  meant  to  drive  a  real  one 
when  he  was  big  enough  —  that  is,  at  first.  Se 
cretly  he  aspired  beyond  that.  Some  day,  when 
he  would  not  be  afraid  to  climb  to  a  higher  seat, 
he  meant  to  drive  the  great  yellow  'bus  that  also 
went  to  trains.  But  that  was  a  dream  too  splendid 
to  tell. 

In  the  summer  of  his  seventh  year,  when  his 
mother  was  finding  it  increasingly  difficult  to 
supply  antidotes  for  this  poison,  she  even  con 
sented  to  his  visiting  some  other  Beans.  Unfortu 
nately,  there  were  no  Bunkers  to  harbour  the 
child  of  one  who  had  made  so  palpable  a  mesal 
liance;  but  the  elder  Beans  would  gladly  receive 
him,  and  they  at  least  had  never  driven  express 
wagons. 

To  the  little  boy,  who  had  no  sense  of  their 
relationship,  they  were  persons  named  "Gramper" 
and  "Grammer"  whom  he  would  do  well  to 
look  down  upon  because  they  were  not  Bunkers. 
So  much  he  underwood,  and  that  he  was  to  ride 
in  a  stage  and  find  tnem  on  a  remote  farm.  It  was 
to  be  the  summer  of  his  first  feat  of  daring  since 
he  had  reached  years  of  moral  discretion. 

He  was  still  so  timid  at  the  beginning  of  the 
wonderful  journey  that  when  the  kind  old  gentle 
man  who  drove  the  stage  stopped  his  horses  at  a 
point  on  the  road  where  ripe  red  apples  hung 
thickly  on  a  tree,  climbed  the  fence  and  returned 
with  a  capacious  hat  full  of  the  fruit,  he  was 
chilled  with  horror  at  the  crime.  He  had  been 


BUNKER  BEAN  19 

freely  told  what  was  thought  of  people,  and  what 
was  done  with  them,  who  took  things  not  their 
own.  Afraid  to  decline  the  two  apples  proffered 
by  the  robber,  who  resumed  his  seat  and  ate 
brazenly  of  his  loot,  the  solitary  passenger  would 
still  be  no  party  to  the  outrage.  He  presently 
dropped  his  own  two  apples  over  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and  later,  lacking  the  preacher's  courage, 
averred  that  he  had  eaten  them  —  and  couldn't 
eat  another  one,  thank  you.  He  was  not  a  little 
affected  by  the  fine  bravado  with  which  the  old 
man  ate  apple  after  apple  along  miles  of  the  road, 
full  in  the  gaze  of  passersby,  to  whom  he  nodded 
in  open-faced  greeting,  as  might  an  honest  man; 
but  he  was  disappointed  that  there  was  no  quick 
dragging  to  a  jail,  nor  smiting  by  the  hand  of  God, 
which  quite  as  often  occurred,  if  his  mother  and 
the  minister  knew  anything  about  such  matters. 
He  decided  that  at  least  the  elderly  reprobate 
would  wake  up  in  the  dark  that  very  night  and 
cry  out  in  mortal  agony  under  the  realization  of 
his  sin. 

And  yet  he,  the  unsullied,  the  fine  theoretical 
moralist,  was  to  return  along  that  road  a  thief. 
A  thief  of  parts,  of  depraved  daring. 

"Gramper"  and  "Grammer"  proved  to  be  an 
incredibly  old  couple,  brown  and  withered  and 
gray  of  locks,  shrunken  in  stature,  slow  and  feeble 
in  action,  and  even  rather  timid  themselves  in 
their  greetings.  They  made  much  of  this  grand 
child,  but  they  were  diffident.  Slowly  it  came 
to  his  knowledge  that  he  was  set  up  as  a  creature 


20  BUNKER  BEAN 

to  adore.  He  enjoyed  a  blissful  new  sensation 
of  being  deferred  to.  Thereafter  he  lorded  it 
over  them,  speaking  in  confident  tones  and  making 
wild  demands  of  entertainment.  His  mother  had 
been  right.  They  were  Beans  and,  therefore, 
not  much.  He  had  brought  his  own  silver  napkin- 
ring  and  had  meant  to  show  them  how  wonder 
fully  he  folded  and  rolled  his  napkin  after  each 
meal.  But  it  seemed  they  possessed  no  napkins 
whatever.  Even  his  mother  hadn't  thought 
anything  so  repulsive  as  that  of  these  people. 
He  now  boldly  played  the  new  game  at  table  that 
his  mother  had  frowned  on.  This  was  to  measure 
off  your  meat  and  potatoes  into  an  equal  number 
of  "bites,"  so  that  they  would  "come  out  even.'7 
If  you  were  careful  and  counted  right,  the  thing 
could  be  done  every  time. 

And  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  years  he  asked 
for  more  pie.  Of  course  this  was  anarchy.  He 
knew  well  enough  that  one  piece  of  pie  is  the 
heaven-allotted  portion;  that  no  one,  even  partly  a 
Bunker,  should  crave  beyond  it;  yet  this  fatuous 
old  pair  seemed  to  invite  just  that  licentiousness, 
and  they  watched  him  with  doting  eyes  while  he 
swaggered  through  his  second  helping. 

If  more  had  been  needed  to  show  the  Beanish 
lowness,  it  would  have  come  after  the  first  supper, 
for  Gramper  and  Grammer  sat  out  on  a  little  vine- 
covered  porch  and  smoked  cob-pipes  which  they 
refilled  at  intervals  from  a  sack  of  tobacco  passed 
companionably  back  and  forth.  His  own  father 
was  supposed  to  smoke  but  once  a  week,  on 


BUNKER  BEAN  21 

Sunday,  and  then  a  cigar  such  as  even  a  male 
Bunker  might  reputably  burn.  But  a  pipe,  and  *^r 
between  the  lips  of  Grammer!  She  managed  it 
with  deftness  and  exhaled  clouds  of  smoke  into 
the  still  air  of  evening  with  a  relish  most  painful 
to  her  amazed  descendant.  Yet  she  inspired  him 
with  an  unholy  ambition. 

Asked  the  next  day  about  the  habit  of  smoking, 
Gramper  said  it  was  a  bad  habit;  that  it  stunted 
people  and  shortened  their  days.  Both  he  and 
Grammer  were  victims  and  warnings.  Grammer 
had  lumbago  sometimes  so  you  wouldn't  hardly 
believe  any  one  could  suffer  that  way  and  live. 
As  for  Gramper  himself,  he  had  a  cough  brought 
on  by  tobacco  that  would  carry  him  off  dead  one 
of  these  days;  yes,  sir,  just  like  that!  And  then, 
to  point  his  warning,  Gramper  coughed  falsely. 
Even  to  the  unpractised  ear  of  his  grandson  the 
cough  did  not  ring  true.  It  lacked  poignance. 

Late  that  afternoon,  when  both  the  old  ones 
slept,  he  abstracted  a  pipe,  stuffed  it  with  the  rich 
black  flakes  and  fled  with  matches  to  a  nook  of 
charming  secrecy  in  the  midst  of  the  lilac  clump. 
Thence  arose  presently  clouds  of  smoke  from  the 
strongest  tobacco  money  could  buy. 

At  last  he  had  dared  something  that  didn't  hurt 
him.  He  puffed  valiantly,  blowing  out  the  smoke 
even  as  Grammer  had  done.  Up  to  a  certain 
moment  his  exaltation  was  intense,  his  scared 
soul  expanding  to  greater  deeds. 

Then  he  coughed  rather  alarmingly.  But  that 
was  to  be  expected.  He  drew  in  another  breath 


22  BUNKER  BEAN 

of  the  stuff  and  coughed  again.  It  was  an  honest 
cough;  no  doubt  about  that.  Perhaps  Gramper's 
cough  had  been  honest.  Perhaps  the  pipe  he  had 
selected  was  Gramper's  own  pipe,  the  one  that 
made  coughs.  He  became  conscious  of  something 
more  than  throaty  discomfort.  Tiny  beads  of 
sweat  bejewelled  his  brow,  the  lilac  bush  began  to 
revolve  swiftly  about  him.  He  must  have  taken 
Grammer's  pipe  after  all  —  the  one  that  led  to 
lumbago.  From  revolving  with  a  mere  horizontal 
motion  the  lilacs  now  began  also  to  whirl  vertically. 
He  had  eaten  a  great  deal  at  dinner.  .  .  . 

A  pallid  remnant  of  himself  declined  supper 
that  night.  Never  could  he  sit  at  table  again  to 
eat  of  food.  Gramper  and  Grammer  were  at  first 
alarmed  and  there  was  talk  of  sending  for  a  veter 
inary,  the  nearest  to  a  professional  man  of  med 
icine  within  miles  and  miles.  But  this  talk  died 
out  after  Gramper  had  made  a  cursory  examina 
tion  of  the  big  yard,  with  especial  attention  to  the 
lilac  clump,  where  a  pipe  and  other  evidence 
was  noticed.  After  that  they  not  only  became 
strangely  reassured,  but  during  their  evening 
smoke  on  the  little  porch  they  often  chuckled  as  if 
relishing  in  secret  some  rare  jest.  It  did  not  occur 
to  Bean  that  they  laughed  at  him.  He  did  not 
suspect  that  any  one  could  laugh  at  a  little  boy 
who  had  nearly  died  of  lumbago.  And  he  sat 
far  away  that  night.  The  sight  of  the  fuming 
pipes  made  him  dizzy.  His  lesson  had  told.  He 
was  never  to  become  an  accomplished  smoker. 

His  new  spirit  of  adventure  being  thus  blunted,, 


BUNKER  BEAN  23 

he  spent  much  of  the  next  day  indoors.  Grammer 
opened  the  "front  room"  for  him,  no  small  con 
cession,  for  this  room  was  never  put  to  vulgar  use; 
rarely  entered,  indeed,  save  once  a  month  for  dust 
ing.  Here  he  found  an  atmosphere  in  keeping 
with  his  own  chastened  gloom,  a  musty  air  of 
mortality  and  twilight. 

Such  poor  elegance  as  could  be  achieved  by 
Beans  alone,  unaided  by  any  Bunker,  was  here 
concentrated;  a  melodeon  that  groaned  to  his 
touch,  with  the  startling  effect  of  a  voice  from  a 
long-closed  tomb;  a  centre-table,  luminous  with 
varnish;  gilded  chairs  in  formal  array;  portraits 
in  gilded  frames;  and  best  of  all,  a  "whatnot," 
a  thing  to  fit  a  corner,  having  many  shelves  and 
each  shelf  loaded  with  fascinating  objects  that  mad 
dened  one  because  they  must  not  be  touched.1 
Varnished  pine-cones,  flint  arrow-heads,  statuettes 
set  on  worsted  mats,  tiny  strange  boxes  rarely 
ornamented  —  you  mustn't  even  shake  them  to 
see  if  they  contained  anything  —  a  small  stuffed 
alligator  in  the  act  of  climbing  a  pole;  a  frail  cup 
and  saucer;  a  watch-chain  fashioned  from  Gram- 
mer's  hair  probably  long  before  she  fell  into  evil 
habits;  a  pink  china  dog  that  simpered;  a  dusty 
black  cigar  with  a  gay  red-and-gold  belt  that  had 
once  upon  a  time  been  given  to  Gramper  by  a 
gentleman  in  Chicago;  a  silver  cup  inscribed 
"Baby";  a  ball  of  clearest  glass,  bigger  than  any 
marble,  with  a  white  camel  at  its  centre  looking 
out  unconcernedly;  a  gilded  horseshoe  adorned 
with  a  bow  of  blue  ribbon;  an  array  of  treasure, 


24  BUNKER  BEAN 

in  short,  that  made  one  suspect  the  Beans  might 
have  been  something  after  all  if  only  they  had  tried. 

Then  on  the  lower  shelf,  when  Grammer,  re 
lying  on  his  honour,  had  left  the  room,  he  made 
his  wondrous  discovery  —  a  thing  more  beauti 
ful  than  ever  he  had  dreamed  of  beauty;  a  thing 
that  caught  all  the  light  in  the  room  and  shot  it 
back  like  a  risen  sun;  a  thing  that  excited,  en 
chained,  satisfied  with  a  satisfaction  so  deep  that 
somehow  it  became  pain.  It  was  a  shell  from  the 
sea,  polished  to  a  dazzling  brilliance  of  opal  and 
jade,  amethyst  and  sapphire,  delicately  subdued, 
blending  as  the  tints  in  the  western  sky  at  sunset, 
soft,  elusive,  fluent.  To  his  rapturously  shocked 
soul,  it  was  a  living  thing.  Instantly  a  spell  was 
upon  him;  long  he  gazed  into  its  depths.  It  was 
more  than  deep;  it  was  bottomless.  In  some 
magic  solution  he  there  beheld  himself  and  all 
the  world;  imperiously  it  commanded  his  being. 
To  his  ear  utterance  came  from  that  lucent  abyss, 
a  murmur  of  voices,  a  confusion  of  tones;  and  then 
invisible  presences  seemed  to  reach  out  greedy 
hands  for  him.  It  was  no  place  for  a  small  boy, 
and  his  short  legs  twinkled  as  he  fled. 

Out  in  the  friendly,  familiar  yard,  he  looked 
curiously  about  him,  basking  in  the  sudden  peace 
of  it.  A  light  wind  stirred  in  the  trees,  the  sky 
was  a  void  of  blue,  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  came  to 
him.  That  was  all  reassuring;  but  something 
more  came:  a  consciousness  that  he  could  trans 
late  only  as  something  vast,  yet  without  shape  or 
substance,  that  opened  to  him,  enfolded  him, 


BUNKER  BEAN  25 

lifted  him.  It  was  a  vision  of  boundless  magni 
tudes  and  himself  among  them  —  among  them  and 
with  a  power  he  could  put  upon  them.  While  it 
lasted  he  had  a  child's  dim  vision  of  the  knowl 
edge  that  life  would  be  big  for  him.  He  heard 
again  the  confusion  of  voices,  and  his  own  among 
them,  in  far  spacious  places.  He  always  re 
membered  this  moment.  In  after  years  he  knew 
it  had  been  given  him  then  to  run  an  eye  along  the 
line  of  his  destiny. 

The  moment  passed;  his  mind  was  again  vacant. 
He  picked  a  green  apple  from  the  low  tree  under 
which  he  stood,  bit  into  it,  chewed  without 
enthusiasm,  then  hurled  the  remnant  at  an  im 
mature  rabbit  that  he  saw  regarding  him  from  the 
edge  of  the  lilac  clump.  The  missile  went  wild, 
but  the  rabbit  fled  and  Bean  pursued  it.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  a  rabbit  —  not  of  a  young  rabbit. 

Returning  from  the  chase,  an  unavailing  one, 
he  believed,  only  because  the  game  used  quite 
unfair  tactics  of  concealment,  he  remembered  the 
shell.  A  longing  for  possession  seized  him.  It 
was  more  than  that.  The  thing  was  already  his; 
had  always  been  his.  Yet  he  foresaw  complica 
tions.  His  ownership  might  be  stupidly  denied. 

He  went  in  to  drag  Grammer  again  before  the 
whatnot,  his  mind  sharpened  to  subtlety. 

"Are  everything  there  yours?"  He  pointed  to 
the  top  shelf. 

"Everything!" 

He  lowered  the  pointing  finger  to  the  second 
shelf.  ' 


26  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Are  everything  there  yours?" 
«' All  of 'em!" 
*'  Every  thing  there?" 
"Yea,  yes!" 

"And  this  one,  too?" 

"For  the  land's  sake,  yes!"  averred  Grammer 
of  the  choice  contents  of  the  fourth  shelf.  She  was 
baking  pies  and  found  herself  a  bit  impatient  of 
this  new  game. 

"Well,  that's  all,  now!"  and  he  dismissed  her, 
not  daring  to  inquire  as  to  the  lower  shelf.  He 
had  seen  the  way  things  were  going  —  a  sickening 
way.  But,  having  shrewdly  stopped  at  the  lower 
shelf,  having  prevented  Grammer  from  saying  that 
those  valuable  objects  were  also  hers,  he  had  still 
the  right  to  come  into  his  own.  If  the  shell 
mightn't  belong  to  her  it  might  belong  to  him; 
therefore  it  did  belong  to  him;  which,  as  logic, 
is  not  so  lame  as  it  sounds.  At  least  it  is  a 
workaday  average. 

It  occurred  to  him  once  to  ask  for  the  shell 
bluntly.  But  reason  forbade  this.  It  was  not  con 
ceivable  that  any  one  having  so  celestial  a  treasure 
would  willingly  part  with  it.  When  a  thing  was 
yours  you  took  it,  with  dignity,  but  quietly. 

During  the  remainder  of  his  stay  he  was  not 
conspicuously  an  occupant  of  the  front  room. 
No  day  passed  that  he  did  not  contrive  at  least 
one  look  at  his  wonderful  shell,  but  he  craftily  did 
not  linger  there,  nor  did  he  ever  utter  words  about 
the  thing,  though  these  often  crowded  perilously 
to  his  lips. 


BUNKER  BEAN  27 

A  later  day  brought  a  letter  to  Grammar,  and 
Gramper  delightedly  let  it  be  known  that  the 
doctor  at  Wellsville  had  brought  little  Bean  a  fine 
new  baby  brother.  Bean  himself  was  not  de 
lighted  at  this.  He  had  suffered  the  ministrations 
of  that  same  doctor  and  he  could  imagine  no 
visit  of  his  to  result  in  a  situation  at  all  pleasant 
to  any  one  concerned.  If  he  had  brought  a  baby 
it  was  doubtless  not  a  baby  that  people  would 
care  to  have  around  the  house.  He  was  not 
cheered  when  told  that  he  might  now  go  home. 

He  meant  to  stay  on,  and  said  so. 

But  the  second  day  brought  another  letter  that 
had  a  curious  effect  on  Gramper  and  Grammer. 
Grammer  cried,  and  Gramper  told  him  with  a 
strange,  grave  manner  that  now  he  must  go.  He 
knew  that  he  was  not  told  why;  something,  he 
overheard  them  agree,  needn't  be  told  "just  yet." 
This  was  rather  exciting  and  reconciled  him  to 
leaving. 

He  crept  softly  down  the  narrow  stairs  that 
night,  alleging,  when  called  to  by  Grammer,  the 
need  of  a  drink  of  water.  When  he  returned  his 
hands  trembled  about  the  shell.  Swiftly  it  went 
to  the  bottom  of  his  small  box,  his  extra  clothing, 
all  his  little  belongings,  being  packed  cleverly 
about  it. 

They  kissed  him  many  times  the  next  morning, 
and  when  he  looked  back  under  the  trees  to  where 
the  old  couple  stood  in  front  of  the  little  weather- 
beaten  house  he  saw  that  Grammer  was  crying 
again.  His  conscience  hurt  him  a  little;  he 


28  BUNKER  BEAN 

wondered  how  they  would  get  along  without  the 
shell.  But  they  couldn't  have  it,  because  it  was 
his  shell. 

The  stage  turned  after  a  bit,  and  suddenly 
there  was  Gramper  at  the  roadside,  breathless 
after  his  run  across  a  corner  of  the  east  forty. 
Instantly  he  was  in  the  clutch  of  a  great  fear;  the 
loss  had  been  discovered.  He  sat  frozen,  waiting. 

But  Gramper  only  flourished  the  napkin-ring, 
and  humorously  taunted  him  with  not  having 
packed  everything,  after  all.  The  stage  drove  on, 
but  for  the  next  mile  his  breathing  was  jerky. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  day-long  ride  —  Gramper 
couldn't  be  running  after  them  that  far  —  he  sur 
rendered  to  his  exultation,  opened  the  box  and 
drew  out  the  shell,  fondling  it,  fascinated  anew  by 
its  varying  sheen,  excited  by  the  freedom  with 
which  he  now  might  touch  it.  Again  he  was  the 
sole  passenger  and  he  called  to  the  old  driver,  to 
whom  nothing  at  all  seemed  to  have  happened 
because  of  his  filching  fruit. 

"See  my  shell  I  found  at  Grammer's!" 

But  the  old  man  was  blind  to  beauty.  He 
turned  a  careless  eye  upon  the  treasure,  turned  it 
off  again  with  a  formless  grunt  that  might  have 
been  perfunctory  praise,  and  resumed  his  half- 
muttered  talk  to  himself,  marked  by  little  oblique 
nods  of  triumph  —  some  endless  dispute  that  he 
seemed  to  hold  with  an  invisible  opponent. 

The  owner  of  the  shell  was  chilled  but  not 
daunted.  There  would  surely  be  others  less 
benighted  who  must  acclaim  the  shell's  charm. 


BUNKER  BEAN  29 

Presently  he  was  at  the  familiar  front  gate  and 
his  father,  looking  unusual,  somehow,  came  to 
lift  him  down. 

"See  my  shell  I  found  at  Crammer's !" 

"Your  mother  is  dead." 

"See  my  shell  I  found  at  Crammer's!" 

"Your  mother  is  dead." 

It  was  the  sinister  iteration  by  which  he  was 
stricken,  rather  than  the  news  itself.  The  latter 
only  stunned.  His  hand  in  his  father's,  he  went 
up  the  walk  and  into  the  house.  There  were 
women  inside,  women  who  moved  with  an  effect 
of  bustling  stillness,  the  same  women  who  had 
so  often  asked  him  what  his  name  was.  They 
seemed  to  know  it  well  enough  now.  He  was 
aware  that  his  entrance  created  no  little  sensation. 
One  of  them  kissed  him  and  told  him  not  to  cry, 
but  he  had  no  thought  of  crying.  He  became 
aware  of  the  thing  in  his  hands. 

"See  my  shell  I  found  at  Crammer's!" 

The  invitation  was  a  general  one.  They  looked 
in  silence  and  some  of  them  moved  about,  and  then 
through  a  doorway  he  saw  in  the  next  room  an 
object  long  and  dark  and  shining  set  on  two  chairs. 

He  had  never  seen  anything  like  it,  but  its  sug 
gestion  was  evil.  The  women  waited.  Something 
seemed  to  be  expected  of  some  one.  His  father  led 
him  into  that  room  and  lifted  him  up  to  see. 
His  mother's  face  was  there  under  a  glass.  He 
could  see  that  she  wore  her  pretty  blue  dress,  and 
on  one  arm  beside  her  was  something  covered  with 
white.  He  called  softly  to  her. 


30  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Mamma!     Mamma!" 

But  she  did  not  open  her  eyes. 

Then  he  was  out  again  where  the  people  were, 
and  the  people  seemed  to  forget  about  him.  He 
went  to  his  little  room  under  the  sloping  roof. 
He  had  not  let  go  of  the  shell  and  now,  in  the 
fading  light  from  the  low  window,  he  lost  himself 
once  more  in  its  depths.  Inwardly  he  knew  that 
a  terror  lurked  near,  but  he  had  not  yet  felt  it. 
Only  when  bedtime  came  did  the  continued  silence 
of  his  mother  become  meaningful.  When  he  was 
left  alone,  he  cried  for  her,  still  clutching  his  shell. 

The  minister  came  the  next  day,  and  many 
people,  and  the  minister  talked  to  them  about 
his  mother.  The  two  Uncle  Bunkers  were  there, 
grim,  hard-mouthed,  glaring,  for  they  hated  each 
other  as  only  brothers  can  hate.  He  wondered 
if  they  would  still  let  him  be  partly  a  Bunker, 
now  that  his  mother  was  gone.  He  wondered  also 
at  the  novel  consideration  he  saw  being  shown  to 
his  father.  Dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  black,  with 
an  unaccustomed  black  hat,  his  father  was  plainly 
become  a  man  of  importance.  He  was  one  apart, 
and  people  of  undoubted  consequence  deferred  to 
him  —  to  the  very  last.  He  earnestly  wished 
his  mother  could  see  that;  his  nervous  little  mother 
with  the  flushed  face  and  tired  eyes,  always 
terrifically  concerned  about  one  small  matter  or 
another.  He  thought  she  would  have  liked  to  see 
that  his  father  was  some  one,  after  all. 


11 

THE  Chicago  epoch  began  a  year  later.  The 
true  nature  of  its  causes  never  lay  quite 
clearly  in  the  mind  of  Bean.  There  was, 
first,  an  entirely  new  Uncle  Bunker  whom  he  had 
never  seen,  but  whom  he  at  once  liked  very  much. 
He  was  a  younger,  more  beautiful  uncle,  with  a 
gay,  light  manner  and  expensive  clothing.  He 
wore  a  magnificent  gold  watch  and  chain,  and 
jewelled  rings  flashed  from  his  white  fingers  as  he, 
in  absent  moments,  daintily  passed  a  small  pocket- 
comb  through  the  meshes  of  his  lustrous  brown 
side-whiskers.  Little  Bean  knew  that  he  did 
something  on  a  board  in  Chicago;  that  he 
"operated"  on  the  Board  of  Trade  was  the  accus 
tomed  phrasing.  He  liked  the  word,  and  tried 
to  picture  what  " operating"  might  mean  in  rela 
tion  to  a  board. 

The  good  people  of  Wellsville  regarded  this 
uncle  with  quite  all  the  respect  so  flashing  a 
figure  deserved.  Not  so  the  two  other  Uncle 
Bunkers  from  over  Walnut  Shade  way.  Their 
first  known  agreement,  voiced  of  this  financier, 
was  in  saying  something  wise  about  a  fool  and 
his  money. 

Later,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time  on  earth, 
they  agreed  once  more.  That  was  when  the  news 

31 


32  BUNKER  BEAN 

of  his  marriage  came  to  them  —  for  what  was 
she?  Nothing  but  his  landlady's  daughter! 
Snip  of  a  girl  that  helped  her  mother  run  a 
cheap  Chicago  boarding-house!  Him  that  could 
have  taken  his  pick,  if  he  was  going  to  be  a  fool 
and  tie  himself  up!  You  could  bet  that  the  pair 
had  "worked"  him,  that  mother  and  the  girl; 
landed  him  for  his  money,  that  was  plain!  Well, 
he'd  made  his  bed! 

Bean  was  not  slow  to  liken  this  uncle  to  his 
mother,  who  had  also  "made  her  bed."  He  had  at 
first  a  misty  notion  that  the  bride  might  a  little 
resemble  his  father,  a  notion  happily  dispelled 
when  he  saw  her.  For  the  pair  came  to  Wellsville. 
It  was  a  sort  of  honeymoon  combined  vaguely  with 
business.  The  bride  was  wonderfully  pretty, 
Bean  thought;  dark  and  dainty  and  laughing, 
forever  talking  the  most  irresistible  "baby-talk" 
to  her  adoring  mate.  Her  name  for  him  was 
"Boo'ful." 

Bean  at  once  fell  deeply  in  love  with  this  bride, 
a  passion  that  was  to  endure  beyond  the  life  of 
most  such  affairs.  She  professed  an  infatuation 
equal  to  his  own,  and  regretted  that  an  immediate 
marriage,  which  he  timidly  advocated  in  the  course 
of  their  first  interview,  was  not  practicable.  That 
she  was  frivolous,  light-minded,  and  would  never 
settle  down  to  be  a  good  worker,  was  a  village 
verdict  he  scorned.  Who  would  have  her  other 
wise?  Not  he,  nor  the  adoring  Boo'ful,  it  is 
certain.  He  determined  to  go  to  live  at  her  house, 
,  strangely  enough  —  for  these  sudden  plans 


BUNKER  BEAN  33 

of  his  were  most  often  discouraged  —  the  thing 
seemed  feasible.  For  one  thing,  his  father  was 
going  to  bring  home  a  new  mother;  a  lady,  he 
gathered,  who  had  not  only  settled  down  to  be  a 
good  worker,  but  who,  in  espousing  his  father, 
would  curiously  not  marry  beneath  her.  Without 
being  told  so,  he  had  absorbed  from  his  first 
mother  a  conviction  that  this  was  possible  to 
but  few  women.  He  felt  a  little  glow  of  pride 
for  his  father  in  this  affair. 

Another  matter  that  seemed  to  bear  on  his 
going  away  was  that  this  brilliant  and  human 
Uncle  Bunker  was  a  "trustee."  Not  only  a 
trustee,  but  his  trustee;  his  very  own,  like  his 
shell,  or  anything.  This  led  to  his  discovery  that 
he  had  money.  His  mother,  it  seemed,  had  left 
it  to  him;  Bunker  money  that  the  two  older  uncles 
had  sought  and  failed  to  divert  from  her  on  the 
occasion  of  her  wedding  one  below  her  station. 
Money!  and  the  capable  Uncle  Bunker  as  trustee 
of  that  money!  Money  one  could  buy  things 
with !  He  was  pleasantly  conscious  of  being  rather 
important  under  the  glance  of  familiars.  Even 
his  father  spoke  formal  words  of  counsel  to  him, 
as  if  a  gulf  was  between  them  —  his  father  now 
bereft  of  all  Bunker  prestige,  legal  or  social. 

And  the  new  uncle  was  to  " educate"  him, 
though  this  was  to  be  paid  for  out  of  that  money 
of  his  very  own.  He  was  rudely  shocked  to  learn 
that  you  had  to  pay  money  to  go  to  school. 
Loathing  school  as  he  did,  to  pay  money  for  your 
own  torture  —  money  that  would  buy  things  - 


34  BUNKER  BEAN 

seemed  unutterably  silly.     But  despite  this   in- 
becility  the  prospect  retained  its  glamour. 

He  would  have  suffered  punishments  even  worse 
than  school  for  the  privilege  of  existing  near  that 
beautiful  bride,  whom  he  was  now  calling,  at  her 
especial  request,  "Aunt  Clara."  She  readily 
understood  any  affair  that  he  chose  to  explain 
to  her;  understood  about  his  shell  and  said  it  was 
the  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  the  world.  She 
understood,  too,  and  was  deeply  sympathetic 
about  Skipper,  the  dog.  Skipper  was  one  of  a 
series  of  puppies  that  Bean  had  appropriated  from 
the  public  highway.  Some  had  shamefully  de 
serted  him  after  a  little  time  of  pampering.  Others, 
and  these  were  the  several  that  had  howled  un 
timely  in  the  far  night,  had  mysteriously  disap 
peared.  Bean  had  sometimes  a  hurt  suspicion 
that  his  father  knew  more  than  he  cared  to  tell 
about  these  vanishings.  But  Skipper  had  stayed 
and  had  not  howled.  Buffeted  wastrel  of  a  thou 
sand  casual  amours,  soft-haired,  confiding,  un 
gainly,  he  was  rich  in  understanding  if  not  in 
beauty.  And  yet  he  must  be  left.  Even  the  dis 
criminating  and  ever-just  Aunt  Clara  felt  that 
Skipper  would  not  do  well  in  a  great  city.  Of 
course  she  was  not  clumsy  enough  to  suggest  that 
there  were  other  dogs  in  the  world,  as  did  her  less 
discerning  husband.  But  she  said  that  it  would 
come  out  all  right,  and  Bean  trusted  her.  She 
knew,  too,  what  would  happen  on  his  first  night 
away,  and  came  softly  to  his  bed  and  solaced  him 
as  he  lay  crying  for  Skipper. 


BUNKER  BEAN  35 

Those  first  Chicago  days  were  rich  in  flavour. 
The  city  was  a  marvel  of  many  terrors,  a  place 
of  weird  sounds,  strange  shapes  and  swift  move 
ments,  among  which  —  having  been  made  timid 
by  much  adversity  —  you  had  need  to  be  very, 
very  careful  if  your  hand  was  in  no  one's.  The 
house  itself  was  wonderful:  a  house  of  real  brick 
and  very  lofty.  If 'you  started  in  the  basement 
you  could  go  "upstairs"  three  distinct  times  in  it 
before  you  reached  the  top.  He  had  never 
imagined  such  a  house  for  any  but  kings  to  live 
in.  Within  were  many  rooms;  he  hardly  could 
count  them  all;  and  regal  furnishings,  gay  with 
colour;  and,  permeating  it  all,  a  most  appetizing 
odour  of  cooked  food,  eloquent  tale  of  long-eaten 
banquets,  able  reminder  of  those  to  come. 

Out  beside  the  front  door  was  a  rather  dingy 
sign  that  said  "Boarders  Wanted."  His  deduc 
tion  after  reading  the  sign  was  that  the  person 
who  wanted  the  boarders  was  Aunt  Clara's  mother. 
She  was  like  Aunt  Clara  in  that  she  was  dark  and 
small,  but  in  nothing  else.  She  did  not  wear 
pretty  dresses  nor  laugh  nor  address  baby  talk 
to  "Boo'ful."  She  was  very  old  and  not  nice  to 
look  at,  Bean  thought;  and  an  uneasy  woman, 
not  knowing  how  to  be  quiet.  Mostly  she  worked 
in  the  kitchen,  after  a  hasty  morning  tour  of  the 
house  to  "do"  the  rooms.  Bean  was  much 
surprised  to  learn  that  her  name,  too,  was  Clara. 
She  did  not  look  at  all  like  any  one  whose  name 
would  be  Clara. 

And  presently  there  was  to  be  a  house  even 


36  BUNKER  BEAN 

more  magnificent  than  this,  where  they  would  all 
live  together  and  where,  so  they  jested,  the  old 
Clara  wouldn't  know  what  to  do,  because  there 
would  be  nothing  to  do.  The  house  would  be 
ready  just  as  soon  as  Boo'ful  made  his  "next 
turn,"  and  that  was  so  near  in  time  that  there  was 
already  a  fascinating  picture  of  the  lines  of  the 
house,  white  lines  on  blue  paper,  over  which  Boo'- 
ful  and  Aunt  Clara  spent  many  an  evening  in 
loving  dispute.  It  seemed  that  you  could  change 
the  house  by  merely  changing  those  lines.  Some 
times  they  put  a  curve  into  the  main  stairway  or 
doubled  the  area  of  stained-glass  window  in  the 
music-room;  sometimes  it  was  a  mere  detail  of 
alteration  in  the  butler's  pantry,  or  the  coach 
man's  room  over  the  stable.  The  old  Clara  dis 
played  no  interest  in  these  details.  She  seemed 
to  be  content  to  go  on  wanting  boarders. 

This  was  not,  as  he  saw  it,  an  unlovely  want. 
It  surrounded  her  with  gay  companions  at  meal 
time;  they  were  "like  one  big  family,"  as  one  of 
the  number  would  frequently  observe.  He  was 
the  one  that  most  often  set  them  all  to  laughing 
by  his  talk  like  that  of  a  German  who  speaks 
English  imperfectly,  which  he  didn't  have  to  do 
at  all.  It  was  only  make-believe,  but  very 
funny. 

After  this  joyous  group  and  his  Aunt  Clara, 
who  really  came  first,  his  preference  in  humans 
was  for  a  lady  who  lived  two  doors  away.  If  you 
rang  her  bell  she  might  be  one  of  three  persons. 
It  depended  on  what  you  were  looking  for.  She 


BUNKER  BEAN  37 

might  be  the  manicure  and  chiropodist  whose 
sign  was  displayed;  she  might  be  Madam  Wanda, 
the  world-renowned  clairvoyant,  sittings  from  9 
A.  M.  to  5  P.  M.,  Advice  on  Love,  Marriage  and 
Business;  sign  also  displayed;  or  she  might  be 
merely  Mrs.  Jackson,  with  a  choice  front  room  for 
a  single  gentleman,  as  declared  by  the  third  sign. 
In  any  case  she  was  a  smiling,  plump  lady  with  a 
capable  blue  eye  and  abundant  dark  hair  that  was 
smooth  and  shiny. 

It  was  in  company  with  his  uncle  that  he  first 
made  her  acquaintance.  His  uncle  knew  all  that 
one  need  know  about  Love  and  Marriage,  but  it 
seemed  that  his  knowledge  of  Business  could  be 
extended.  There  were  times  when  only  the  gifts 
of  a  world-renowned  clairvoyant  could  enable  one 
to  say  what  May  wheat  was  going  to  do. 

The  acquaintance,  lightly  enough  begun,  ripened 
soon  to  intimacy,  and  so  were  the  eyes  of  Bean  first 
opened  to  mysteries  that  would  later  affect  his 
life  so  vitally.  He  was  soon  carrying  wood  and 
coal  up  the  back  stairs  of  Mrs.  Jackson,  in  return 
for  which  the  lady  ministered  to  him  in  her  pro 
fessional  capacities.  At  their  first  important 
session  on  a  rainy  Saturday  of  leisure  she  trimmed 
and  polished  each  of  his  ten  finger-nails,  told  his 
past,  present  and  future  —  he  was  going  to  cross 
water  and  there  was  a  dark  gentleman  he  had  need 
to  beware  of  —  and  suggested  that  his  feet  might 
need  attention. 

He  squirmingly  demurred  at  this  last  operation, 
and  successfully  resisted  it.  But  the  bonds  of 


38  BUNKER  BEAN 

their  friendship  were  sealed  over  a  light  collation 
which  she  served.  She  was  a  vegetarian,  she 
told  him.  You  couldn't  get  on  to  a  high  spiritual 
plane  if  you  ate  the  corpses  of  murdered  animals. 
But  her  food  seemed  sufficing  and  she  drank  beer 
which  he  brought  her  in  a  neat  pitcher  from  the 
cheerful  store  on  the  corner  where  the}7'  sold  such 
things.  Beer,  she  explained  to  him,  was  a  strictly 
vegetable  product,  though  not  the  thing  for  grow 
ing  boys.  The  young  must  discriminate,  even 
among  vegetables. 

They  liked  each  other  well  and  in  a  little  time  he 
had  absorbed  the  simple  tale  of  her  activities. 
When  you  rented  rooms,  people  sometimes  left 
without  paying  you.  So  had  gone  Professor  de 
Lavigne,  the  chiropodist;  so  had  vanished  the  orig 
inal  Madam  Wanda.  They  had  left  their  signs, 
and  nothing  else.  The  rest  was  simple  after  you 
had  been  seeing  how  they  did  it  —  a  little  practice 
with  a  nail-file,  a  little  observation  of  parties  that 
came  in  with  crepe  on,  to  whom  you  said,  "Stand 
ing  right  there  I  see  some  one  near  and  dear  to  you 
that  has  lately  passed  on  to  the  spirit  land";  or 
male  parties  that  looked  all  fussed  up  and  worried, 
to  whom  you  said  that  the  deal  was  coming  out  all 
right,  only  they  were  always  to  act  on  their  first 
impulse  and  look  out  for  a  man  with  kind  of 
brownish  hair  who  carried  a  gold  watch  and  some 
times  wore  gloves.  She  said  it  was  strange  how 
she  could  "hit  it"  sometimes,  especially  where 
there  were  initials  in  the  hats  they  left  outside  in 
the  hall,  or  a  name  inside  the  overcoat  pocket.  It 


BUNKER  BEAN  39 

was  wonderful  what  she  had  been  able  to  tell 
parties  for  a  dollar. 

Bean  cared  little  for  these  details,  but  he  was 
excited  by  the  theory  back  of  them;  a  world  from 
which  the  unseen  spirits  of  the  dead  will  counsel 
and  guide  us  in  our  daily  affairs  if  we  will  listen. 
It  was  a  new  terror  added  to  a  world  of  terrors  — • 
they  were  all  about  you,  striving  with  futile  hands 
to  touch  you,  whispering  words  of  cheer  or  warning 
tp  your  deaf  ears. 

Mrs.  Jackson  herself  believed  it  implicitly  and 
went  each  week  to  consult  one  or  another  of  the 
more  advanced  mediums.  The  last  one  had  seen 
the  spirit  of  her  Aunt  Mary,  a  deceased  person 
so  remote  in  time  that  she  had  been  clean  forgot 
ten.  But  it  was  a  valuable  pointer.  When  you 
come  to  think  about  it,  at  least  seven  parties  out  of 
ten,  if  they  were  any  way  along  in  years,  had  a 
dead  Aunt  Mary.  And  it  was  best  to  go  to  the 
good  ones.  Mrs.  Jackson  admitted  that.  You 
paid  more,  but  you  got  more. 

Uncle  Bunker  became  of  this  opinion  very  soon. 
What  Mrs.  Jackson  disclosed  to  him  about  May 
wheat  had  seemed  to  be  hardly  worth  the  dollar 
she  asked.  He  began  going  to  the  good  ones,  and 
Bean  gathered  that  even  their  superior  gifts  left 
something  to  be  desired.  The  brilliant  uncle 
began  to  accustom  his  home  circle  to  frowns. 
Bean  and  the  older  Clara  (she  was  beginning  to 
complain  about  not  sleeping  and  a  pain  in  her 
side)  were  sensible  of  this  change,  but  the  younger 
Clara  only  pouted  when  she  noticed  it  at  all, 


40  BUNKER  BEAN 

prettily  accusing  her  splendid  consort  of  not  caring 
for  her  as  he  had  once  professed  to.  She  spent 
more  time  over  her  hair  and  shopped  extensively 
for  feminine  trappings. 

Then  one  day  his  uncle  came  home,  a  slinking 
wreck  of  beauty,  and  told  Aunt  Clara  that  all  was 
lost  save  honour.  Bean  heard  the  interesting  an 
nouncement,  and  gathered,  after  a  question  from 
his  aunt,  that  his  own  patrimony  had  been  a  part 
of  that  all  which  was  lost  save  honour.  He  heard 
his  uncle  add  tearfully  that  one  shot  would  end 
it  now. 

He  was  frightened  by  this,  but  his  Aunt  Clara 
seemed  not  to  be.  He  heard  her  say,  "There, 
there!  Did  a  nassy  ol'  martet  do  adainst  'urns!" 
And  later  she  was  seen  to  take  him  up  tea  and 
toast  and  chicken. 


The  years  seemed  to  march  more  swiftly  then 
• —  school  and  growing  and  little  changes  in  the 
house.  Boo'ful  never  fired  the  shot  that  would 
have  ended  all.  The  older  Clara  inconsequently 
died  and  the  frivolous  Clara  took  her  place  in  the 
kitchen.  She  had  not  corrected  her  light  manner, 
but  slowly  she  changed  with  the  years  until  she 
was  almost  as  faded  as  the  old  Clara  had  been. 
More  ambitious,  however,  and  working  to  better 
purpose.  They  went  to  a  new  and  finer  house 
that  would  hold  more  boarders;  and  the  sign, 
which  was  lettered  in  gold,  said,  "Boarders 
Taken,"  a  far  more  dignified  sign  than  the  old  with 


BUNKER  BEAN  41 

its  frank  appeal  of  "Boarders  Wanted."  That 
new  sign  intimated  a  noble  condescension. 

Aunt  Clara  had  not  only  settled  down  to  be  a 
worker,  but  she  had  proved  to  be  a  manager. 
Boo'ful  actually  performed  little  services  about  the 
house,  staying  in  the  kitchen  at  meal-time  to 
carve  and  help  serve  the  food.  Aunt  Clara  had 
been  unexpected  adamant  in  the  matter  of  his 
taking  a  fine  revenge  on  the  market  that  had  gone 
against  him.  She  refused  to  provide  the  very 
modest  sum  he  pleaded  for  to  this  end,  and  as  the 
two  old  Uncle  Bunkers  were  equally  obdurate  — 
they  said  they  had  known  when  he  married  that 
flutter-budget  just  how  he  would  end  —  his  leisure 
was  never  seriously  menaced. 

Aunt  Clara  was  especially  firm  about  the  money 
because  of  the  considerable  life-insurance  premium 
she  soon  began  to  pay.  It  was  her  whim  that  little 
Bean  had  not  been  of  competent  years  to  lose  all 
save  honour,  and  she  had  discovered  a  life-insur 
ance  company  whose  officers  were  mad  enough  to 
compute  Boo'fuPs  loss  to  the  world  in  dollars  and 
cents.  He  was,  in  fact,  considered  an  excellent 
risk.  He  did  not  fade  after  the  manner  of  the  busy 
Aunt  Clara,  that  gay  little  wretch  whose  girlish 
graces  lingered  on  incongruously  —  like  jests  upon 
a  tombstone. 

Bean  grew  to  college  years.  Aunt  Clara  had 
been  insistent  about  the  college;  it  was  to  be  the 
best  business  college  in  Chicago.  Bean  matricu 
lated  without  formality  and  studied  stenography 
and  typewriting.  Aunt  Clara  had  been  afraid 


\ 


42  BUNKER  BEAN 

that  he  might  "get  in"  with  a  fast  college  set  and 
learn  to  drink  and  smoke  and  gamble.  It  may  be 
admitted  that  he  wished  to  do  just  these  things, 
but  he  had  observed  the  effects  of  drink,  his  one 
experience  with  tobacco  remained  all  too  vivid, 
and  gambling  required  more  capital  than  the  car 
fare  he  was  usually  provided  with.  Besides,  you 
came  to  a  bad  end  if  you  gambled.  It  led  to  other 
things. 

Nor  would  he/,  on  the  public  street,  join  with 
•any  number  of  his  class  in  the  college  yell.  He  was 
afraid  a  policeman  would  arrest  him.  Even  in 
the  more  mature  years  of  a  comparatively  blame 
less  life  he  remained  afraid  of  policemen,  and  never 
passed  one  without  a  tremor.  All  of  which 
conduced  to  his  efficiency  as  a  student.  When 
others  fled  to  their  questionable  pleasures  he  was 
as  likely  as  not  to  remain  in  his  chair  before  a 
typewriter,  pounding  out  again  and  again,  "  The 

swift  brown  fox  jumps  over  the  lazy  dog "  a 

dramatic  enough  situation  ingeniously  worded  to 
utilize  nearly  all  the  letters  of  our  alphabet. 

At  last  he  was  pronounced  competent,  received 
a  diploma  (which  Aunt  Clara  framed  handsomely 
and  hung  in  her  own  room  beside  the  pastel 
portrait  of  Boo'ful  in  his  opulent  prime)  and  took 
up  a  man's  work. 


The  veil  that  hangs  between  mortal  eyes  and 
the  Infinite  had  many  times  been  pierced  for  him 
by  the  able  Mrs.  Jackson.  He  was  now  to  enter 


BUNKER  BEAN  43 

another  and  more  significant  stage  of  his  spiritual 
development. 

His  first  employer  was  a  noble-looking  old  man, 
white-bearded,  and  vast  of  brow,  who  came  to  be 
a  boarder  at  Aunt  Clara's.  He  was  a  believer  in 
the  cult  of  theosophy  and  specialized  on  reincar 
nation.  Neither  word  was  luminous  to  Bean,  but 
he  learned  that  the  old  gentleman  was  writing  a 
book  and  would  need  an  amanuensis.  They  agreed 
upon  terms  and  the  work  began.  The  book  was  a 
romance  entitled,  "Glimpses  Through  the  Veil 
of  Time/'  and  it  was  to  tell  of  a  soul's  adventures 
through  a  prolonged  series  of  reincarnations.  So 
much  Bean  grasped.  The  terminology  of  the 
author  was  more  difficult.  When  you  have  chiefly 
learned  to  write,  "Your  favour  of  the  nth  inst. 
came  duly  to  hand  and  in  reply  we  beg  to  state 

"  it  is  confusing  to  be  switched  to  such  words 

as  "anthropogenesis"  and  to  chapter  headings 
like  "Substituting  Variable  Quantities  for  Fixed 
Extraordinary  Theoretic  Possibilities."  Even 
when  the  author  meant  to  be  most  lucid  Bean 
found  him  not  too  easy.  "  In  order  to  simplify 
the  theory  of  the  Karmic  cycle,"  dictated  the 
white-bearded  one  for  his  Introduction,  "let  us 
think  of  the  subplanes  of  the  astral  plane  as  hori 
zontal  divisions,  and  of  the  types  of  matter 
belonging  to  the  seven  great  planetary  Logoi  as 
perpendicular  divisions  crossing  these  others  at 
right  angles." 

What  Bean  made  of  this  in  transcribing  his 
notes  need  not  be  told.     What  is  solely  important 


44  BUNKER  BEAN 

is  that,  as  the  tale  progressed,  he  became  enthralled 
by  the  doctrine  of  reincarnation.  It  was  of  minor 
consequence  that  he  became  expert  in  shorthand. 

Had  he  lived  before,  would  he  live  again  ?  There 
must  be  a  way  to  know.  "Alclytus, "  began  an 
early  chapter  of  the  tale,  "was  born  this  time  in 
21976  B.  C.  in  a  male  body  as  the  son  of  a  king, 
in  what  is  now  the  Telugu  country  not  far  from 
Masulipatam.  He  was  proficient  in  riding,  shoot 
ing,  swimming  and  the  sports  of  his  race.  When 
he  came  of  age  he  married  Surya,  the  daughter  of 
a  neighbouring  rajah  and  they  were  very  happy 
together  in  their  religious  studies " 

Had  he,  Bunker  Bean,  perhaps  once  espoused 
the  daughter  of  a  rajah,  and  been  happy  in  relig 
ious  studies  with  her?  Had  he,  perchance,  been 
even  the  rajah  himself?  Why  not? 

The  romance  was  never  finished.  A  worried 
son  of  the  old  gentleman  appeared  one  day, 
alleged  that  he  had  run  off  from  a  good  home  where 
he  was  kindly  treated,  and  by  mild  force  carried 
him  back.  But  he  had  performed  his  allotted  part 
in  Bean's  life. 

A  few  books  had  been  left  and  these  were  read. 
Death  was  a  recurring  incident  in  an  endless  life. 
Wise  men  he  saw  had  found  this  an  answer  to  all 
problems  —  founders  of  religions  and  philosophies 
—  Buddha,  Pythagoras,  Plato,  the  Christ.  Wise 
moderns  had  accepted  it,  Max  Miiller  and  Hume 
and  Goethe,  Fichte,  Schelling,  Lessing.  Bean 
could  not  appraise  these  authorities,  but  the 
names  somehow  sounded  convincing  and  the  men 


BUNKER  BEAN  45 

had  seemed  to  think  that  reincarnation  was  the 
only  doctrine  of  immortality  a  philosopher  could 
consider. 

It  remained,  then,  to  explore  the  Karmic  past 
of  Bunker  Bean;  not  in  any  mood  of  lightness. 
A  verse  quoted  by  the  old  man  had  given  him 
pause: 

"Who  toiled  a  slave  may  come  anew  a  prince 

For  gentle  worthiness  and  merit  won ; 
Who  ruled  a  king  may  wander  earth  in  rags 
For  things  done  and  undone." 

What  might  he  have  been?  For  ruling  once 
as  a  king,  a  bad  king,  was  he  now  merely  Bunker 
Bean,  not  precisely  roaming  the  earth  in  rags,  but 
sidling  timidly  through  its  terrors,  disbelieving  in 
himself,  afraid  of  policemen,  afraid  of  life? 

So  he  confronted  and  considered  the  thing, 
fascinated  by  its  vistas  as  once  he  had  been  by  the' 
shell.  If  it  were  true  that  we  cast  away  our  worn 
bodies  and  ever  reclothe  ourselves  with  new,  why 
should  not  the  right  member  of  Mrs.  Jackson's 
profession  one  day  unfold  to  him  his  beginningless 
past? 


Ill 

THE  courts  havin'  decided,"  continued 
Breede,  in  staccato  explosions,  "that  the 
'quipment  is  nes'ry  part  of  road,  without 
which  road  would  be  tot'ly  crippled,  you  will  note 
these  first  moggige  'quipment  bonds  take  pri'rty 
over  first-moggige  bonds,  an'  gov'n  y'sef  'cordingly 
your  ver'  truly " 

He  glanced  up  at  Bean,  contracted  his  brows  to  a 
black  menace  and  emitted  a  final  detonation. 

"  'Sail  for  'saft'noon!" 

He  bit  savagely  into  his  unlighted  cigar  and 
began  to  rifle  through  a  new  sheaf  of  documents. 
Bean  deftly  effaced  himself,  with  a  parting  glare 
at  the  unlighted  cigar.  It  was  a  feature  of  Breede 
that  no  reporter  ever  neglected  to  mention,  but 
Bean  thought  you  might  as  well  chew  tobacco 
and  be  done  with  it.  Moreover,  the  cigars  were 
not  such  as  one  would  have  expected  to  find  be 
tween  the  lips  of  a  man  whose  present  wealth  was 
estimated  at  a  round  hundred  million.  Bulger, 
in  the  outer  office,  had  given  up  trying  to  smoke 
them.  He  declared  them  to  be  the  very  worst 
that  could  be  had  for  any  money. 

Before  beginning  the  transcription  of  his  notes, 
Bean  had  to  learn  the  latest  telephone  news  from 
the  ball-ground.  During  the  last  half-hour  he 

46 


BUNKER  BEAN  47 

had  inwardly  raged  more  than  usual  at  Breede  for 
being  kept  from  this  information.  Bulger  always 
managed  to  get  it  on  time,  beginning  with  the 
third  inning,  even  when  he  took  dictation  from 
Breede's  confidential  secretary,  or  from  Tully, 
the  chief  clerk. 

Bean  looked  inquiringly  at  Bulger  now.  Bulger 
nodded  and  presently  strolled  from  his  own  desk 
to  Bean's,  where  he  left  a  slip  of  paper  bearing  the 
words,  "Cubs,  3 ;  Giants,  2;  ist  f  4th." 

Bean  had  envied  Bulger  from  the  first  for  this 
man-of-the-world  ease.  In  actual  person  not 
superior  to  Bean,  he  had  a  temperament  of  daring. 
In  every  detail  he  was  an  advanced  dresser, 
specializing  in  flamboyant  cravats.  He  would 
have  been  Bean's  model  if  Bean  had  been  less  a 
coward.  Bulger  was  nearly  all  that  Bean  wished 
to  be.  He  condescended  to  his  tasks  with  an  air 
of  elegant  and  detached  leisure  that  raised  them 
to  the  dignity  of  sports.  He  had  quite  the  air 
of  a  wealthy  amateur  with  a  passion  for  type 
writing. 

He  had  once  done  Breede's  personal  work,  but 
had  been  banished  to  the  outer  office  after  Bean's 
first  try-out.  Breede  had  found  some  mysterious 
objection  to  him.  Perhaps  it  was  because  Bulger 
would  always  look  up  with  pleased  sagacity,  as  if 
he  were  helping  to  compose  Breede's  letters.  It 
may  have  been  simple  envy  in  Breede  for  his  ad 
vanced  dressing.  Bulger  had  felt  no  unkindness 
toward  Bean  for  thus  supplanting  him  in  a  desir 
able  post.  But  he  did  confide  to  his  successor 


48  BUNKER  BEAN 

that  if  he,  Bulger,  ever  found  Breede  under  his 
heel,  Breede  could  expect  no  mercy.  Bulger  would 
grind  him  —  just  like  that! 

Bean  dramatized  this  as  he  wrote  his  letters; 
Breede  pleasantly  disintegrating  under  the  iron 
heel  of  Bulger:  Breede  "The  Great  Reorganizer, " 
as  he  was  said  to  be  known  "in  the  Street,"  old 
"  steel  and  velvet,"  meeting  a  just  fate !  So  nearly 
mechanical  was  his  typewriting  that  he  spoiled 
one  sheet  of  paper  by  transcribing  two  lines  of 
shorthand  not  meant  to  be  a  part  of  the  letter. 
Only  by  chance  did  a  certain  traffic  manager  of 
lines  west  of  Chicago  escape  reading  a  briefly 
worded  opinion  of  the  clothes  he  wore  that  would 
have  puzzled  and  might  have  pained  hini,  for 
Breede,  such  had  come  to  be  his  confidence  in 
Bean,  always  signed  his  letters  without  read 
ing  them  over.  Bean  gasped  and  wisely  dis 
missed  the  drama  of  Bulger's  revenge  from  his 
mind. 

At  four-thirty  the  day's  work  ended  and  Bean 
was  free  to  forget  until  another  day  the  little  he 
had  been  unable  to  avoid  learning  about  high 
railroad  finance;  free  to  lead  his  own  secret  life, 
which  was  a  thing  apart  from  all  that  wordy 
foolery. 

He  changed  from  his  office  coat  to  one  alleged 
by  its  maker  to  give  him  the  appearance  of  perfect 
physical  development,  and  descended  to  the  street- 
level  in  company  with  Bulger.  Bean  would  have 
preferred  to  walk  down;  he  suffered  the  sensations 
of  dying  each  time  the  elevator  seemed  to  fall,  but 


BUNKER  BEAN  49 

he  could  not  confess  this  to  the  doggish  and  in 
trepid  Bulger. 

There  were  other  weaknesses  he  had  to  cloak. 
Bulger  proffered  cigarettes  from  a  silver  case  at 
their  first  meeting.  Bean  declined. 

"  Doctor's  orders,"  said  he. 

"Nerves?"  suggested  Bulger,  expertly. 

"Heart  —  gets  me  something  fierce." 

"Come  in  here  to  Tommy's  and  take  a  bracer," 
now  suggested  the  hospitable  Bulger.  But  again 
the  physician  had  been  obdurate. 

"Won't  let  me  touch  a  thing — liver,"  said 
Bean.  "Got  to  be  careful  of  a  breakdown." 

"Tough,"  said  Bulger.  "Man  needs  a  certain 
amount  of  it,  down  here  in  the  street.  Course, 
a  guy  can't  sop  it  up,  like  you  see  some  do.  Other 
night,  now  —  gang  of  us  out,  y'understand  — 
come  too  fast  for  your  Uncle  Cuthbert.  Say, 
goin'  up  those  stairs  where  I  live  I  cert'n'ly  must 
'a'  sounded  like  a  well-known  clubman  gettin* 
home  from  an  Elks'  banquet.  Head,  next  A.  M? 
—  ask  me,  ask  me!  Nothing  of  the  kind!  Don't 
I  show  up  with  a  toothache  and  con  old  Tully 
into  a  day  off  at  the  dentist's  to  have  the  bridge- 
work  tooled  up.  Ask  me  was  I  at  the  dentist's? 
Wow!  Not!  —  little  old  William  J.  Turkish  bath 
for  mine!" 

Bean  was  moved  to  raw  envy.  But  he  knew 
himself  too  well.  The  specialist  he  professed  to 
have  consulted  had  put  a  ban  upon  the  simplest 
recreations.  Otherwise  how  could  he  with  any 
grace  have  declined  those  repeated  invitations  of 


50  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bulger's  to  come  along  and  meet  a  couple  of  swell 
dames  that'd  like  to  have  a  good  time?    Bulger, 
considered  in  relation  to  the  sex  not  his  own,  was 
what  he  himself  would  have  termed  "a  smooth 
little  piece  of  work."     Bean  was  not  this.     Of  all 
his  terrors  women,  as  objects  of  purely  male  atten 
tion,  were  the  greatest.     He  longed  for  them,  he 
looked  upon  such  as  were  desirable  with  what  he 
believed  to  be  an  evil  eye,  but  he  had  learned  not 
to  go  too  close.     They  talked,  they  disconcerted 
him  horribly.     And  if  they  didn't  talk  they  looked 
dangerous,  as  if  they  knew  too  much.     Some  day, 
course,  he  would  nerve  himself  to  it.     Indeed 
.-'he  very  determinedly  meant  to  marry,   and  to 
/   have  a  son  who  should  be  trained  from  the  cradle 
I    with  the  sole  idea  of  making  him  a  great  left- 
\handed  pitcher;  but  that  was  far  in  the  future. 
rie  longed  tragically  to  go  with  Bulger  and  meet 
a  couple  of  swell  dames,  but  he  knew  how  it  would 
be.     Right  off  they  would  find  him  out  and  laugh 
at  him. 

Bulger  consumed  another  high-ball,  filled  his 
cigarette  case,  and  the  two  stood  a  moment  on 
Broadway.  Breede,  the  last  to  leave  his  office, 
crossed  the  pavement  to  a  waiting  automobile. 

"There's  his  foxy  Rebates  going  to  the  arms  of 
his  family,"  said  Bulger,  disrespectfully  applying 
to  Breede  a  term  that  had  more  than  once  made 
him  interesting  to  the  Interstate  Commerce  Com 
mission. 

"See  the  three  skirts  in  the  back?  That's 
the  Missis  and  the  two  squabs.  Young  one's  only 


BUNKER  BEAN  51 

a  flapper,  but  the  old  one's  a  peacherine  for  looks. 
Go  on,  lamp  her  once!" 

Bean  turned  his  diffident  gaze  upon  the  occu 
pants  of  the  tonneau  with  a  sudden  wild  dream 
that  he  would  stare  insolently.  But  his  eyes 
unaccountably  came  to  rest  in  the  eyes  of  the 
young  one  —  the  flapper.  He  saw  only  the  eyes, 
and  he  felt  that  the  eyes  were  seeing  him.  The 
motor  chugged  slowly  up  Broadway,  nosing  for  a 
path  about  a  slowly  driven  truck;  the  flapper 
looked  back. 

"Not  half  bad,  that!"  said  Bean,  recovering, 
and  speaking  in  what  he  felt  was-  the  correct 
Bulger  tone. 

"Not  for  mine,"  said  Bulger  firmly.  "Big 
sister,  though,  not  so  worse.  Met  up  with  her 
one  time  out  to  the  country  place,  takin'  stuff  for 
the  old  man  the  time  he  got  kidneys  in  his  feet. 
I  made  a  hit  with  her,  too,  on  the  level,  but  say! 
nothin'  doing  there  for  old  John  W.  me!  I 
dropped  the  thing  like  it  was  poison  ivy.  Me  doin* 
the  nuptial  in  a  family  like  that,  and  bein'  under 
Pop's  thumb  the  rest  of  my  life?  Ask  me,  that's 
all;  ask  me!  Wake  me  up  any  time  in  the  night 
and  ask  me." 

Again  Bean  was  thrilled,  resolving  then  and 
there  that  no  daughter  of  Breede's  should  ever 
wed  him.  Bulger  was  entirely  right.  It  wouldn't 
do.  Bulger  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Well,  s'long;  got  a  date  down  in  the  next 
block.  She's  out  at  five.  Say,  I  want  you  to  get 
a  flash  at  her  some  day.  Broadway  car,  yester- 


52  BUNKER  BEAN 

day,  me  goin'  uptown  with  Max,  see?  she  lookin' 
at  her  gloves.  'Pipe  the  queen  in  black/  I  says 
to  Max,  jes'  so  she  could  hear,  y '  understand.  Say, 
did  she  gimme  the  eye.  Not  at  all!  Not  at  all! 
Old  William  H.  Smoothy,  I  guess  yes.  Pretty 
soon  a  gink  setting  beside  her  beats  it,  and  quick 
change  for  me.  Had  her  all  dated  up  by  Four 
teenth  Street.  Dinner  and  a  show,  if  things  look 
well.  Some  class  to  her,  all  right.  One  the  mani 
cures  in  that  shop  down  there.  Well,  s'long!" 

Looking  over  his  shoulder  with  sickish  envy 
after  the  invincible  Bulger,  Bean  left  the  curb  for 
a  passing  car  and  came  to  a  jolting  stop  against 
the  biggest  policeman  he  had  ever  seen.  He 
mumbled  a  horrified  apology,  but  his  victim  did 
not  even  turn  to  look  down  upon  him.  He  fled 
into  the  car  and  found  a  seat,  still  trembling  from 
that  collision.  From  across  the  aisle  a  pretty  girl 
surveyed  him  with  veiled  insolence.  He  furtively 
felt  of  his  neutral-tinted  cravat  and  took  his  hat 
off  to  see  if  there  could  be  a  dent  in  it.  The  girl, 
having  plumbed  his  insignificance,  now  uncon 
cernedly  read  the  signs  above  his  head.  There 
was  bitterness  in  the  stare  he  bestowed  upon  her 
trim  lines.  Some  day  Bulger  would  chance  to  be 
on  that  car  with  her  —  then  she'd  be  taken  down  a 
bit  —  Bulger  who,  by  Fourteenth  Street,  had 
them  all  dated  up. 

Presently  he  was  embarrassed  by  a  stout, 
aggressive  man  who  clutched  a  strap  with  one  hand 
and  some  evening  papers  with  the  other,  a  man 
who  clearly  considered  it  outrageous  that  he  should 


BUNKER  BEAN  53 

be  compelled  to  stand  in  a  street  car.  He  glared 
at  Bean  with  a  cold,  questioning  indignation, 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  seeming 
to  be  on  the  point  of  having  words  about  it.  This 
was  not  long  to  be  endured.  Bean  glanced  out 
in  feigned  dismay,  as  if  at  a  desired  cross-street 
he  had  carelessly  passed,  sprang  toward  the  door 
of  the  car  and  caromed  heavily  against  a  tired 
workingman  who  still,  however,  was  not  too  tired 
to  put  his  sense  of  injury  into  quick,  pithy  words 
of  the  street.  The  pretty  girl  tittered  horribly  and 
the  stout  man,  already  in  Bean's  seat,  rattled  his 
papers  impatiently,  implying  that  people  in  that 
state  ought  to  be  kept  off  in  the  first  place. 

He  had  meant  to  leave  the  car  and  try  another, 
but  there  at  the  step  was  another  too-large  police 
man  helping  an  uncertain  old  lady  to  the  ground, 
so  he  slinkingly  insinuated  himself  to  the  far  corner 
of  the  platform,  where,  for  forty  city  blocks,  a 
whistling  messenger  boy  gored  his  right  side  with 
the  corners  of  an  unyielding  box  while  a  dreamy- 
eyed  man  who,  as  Bulger  would  have  said,  had 
apparently  been  sopping  it  up  like  you  see  some 
do,  leaned  a  friendly  elbow  on  his  shoulder,  dented 
his  new  hat  and  from  time  to  time  stepped  elabo 
rately  on  his  natty  shoes  with  the  blue  cloth 
uppers.  Also,  the  conductor  demanded  and  re 
ceived  a  second  fare  from  him.  What  was  the  use 
of  saying  you  had  paid  inside?  The  conductor 
was  a  desperate  looking  man  who  would  probably 
say  he  knew  that  game,  and  stop  the  car.  .  .  . 

Something  of  the  sort  always  happened  to  him 


54  BUNKER  BEAN 

in  street  cars.  It  was  bad  enough  when  you 
walked,  with  people  jostling  you  and  looking  as  if 
they  wondered  what  right  you  had  to  be  there. 

At  last  came  the  street  down  which  he  made  a 
daily  pilgrimage  and  he  popped  from  the  crowd  on 
the  platform  like  a  seed  squeezed  from  an  orange. 

Reaching  the  curb  alive  —  the  crossing  police 
man  graciously  halted  a  huge  motor-truck  driven 
by  a  speed-enthusiast  —  he  corrected  the  latest 
dent  in  his  hat,  straightened  his  cravat,  read 
justed  the  shoulder  lines  of  the  coat  appertain 
ing  to  America's  greatest  eighteen-dollar  suit  — 
"$18.00  —  No  More;  No  Less!"  —  and  with  a 
fear-quickened  hand  discovered  that  his  watch  was 
gone,  his  gold  hunting-case  watch  and  horseshoe 
fob  set  with  brilliants,  that  Aunt  Clara  had  given 
him  on  his  twenty-first  birthday  for  not  smoking! 

A  moment  he  stood,  raging,  fearing.  His  money 
was  safe,  but  they  might  decide  to  come  back  for 
that.  Or  the  policeman  might  come  up  and  make 
an  ugly  row  because  he  had  let  himself  be  robbed 
in  a  public  conveyance.  He  would  have  to  prove 
that  the  watch  was  his;  probably  have  to  tell  why 
Aunt  Clara  had  given  it  to  him. 

With  a  philosophy  peculiarly  his  own,  a  spirit 
of  wise  submission  that  was  more  than  once  to 
serve  him  well,  he  pulled  his  hat  sharply  down, 
braced  and  squared  such  appearance  of  perfect 
physical  development  as  the  eighteen  dollars  had 
achieved,  and  walked  away.  He  had  always 
known  the  watch  would  go.  Now  it  was  gone,  no 
more  worry.  Good  enough!  As  he  walked  he 


BUNKER  BEAN  55 

rehearsed  an  explanation  to  Bulger:  cleverly 
worded  intimations  that  the  watch  had  been 
pawned  to  meet  a  certain  quick  demand  on  his 
resources  not  morally  to  his  credit.  He  made  the 
implication  as  sinister  as  he  could. 

And  then  he  stood  once  more  before  the  shrine 
of  Beauty.  In  the  show-window  cf  a  bird-and- 
animal  store  on  Sixth  Avenue  was  a  four-months- 
old  puppy,  a  "Boston-bull,"  that  was,  of  a  cer 
tainty,  the  most  perfect  thing  ever  born  of  a 
mother-dog.  Already  the  head  was  enormous,  in 
contrast,  yet  somehow  in  a  maddening  harmony 
with  the  clean-lined  slender  body.  The  colour- 
scheme  was  golden  brown  on  a  background  of 
pure  white.  On  the  body  this  golden  brown  was 
distributed  with  that  apparent  carelessness  which 
is  Art.  Overlaying  the  sides  and  back  were  three 
patches  of  it  about  the  size  and  somewhat  the 
shape  of  maps  of  Africa  as  such  are  commonly  to 
be  observed.  In  the  colouring  of  the  noble  brow 
and  absurdly  wide  jaws  a  more  tender  care  was 
evident.  There  was  the  same  golden  brown,  be 
ginning  well  back  of  the  ears  and  flowing  lustrously 
to  the  edge  of  the  overhanging  upper  lip,  where  it 
darkened.  Midway  between  the  ears  —  erectly 
alert  those  ears  were  —  a  narrow  strip  of  white 
descended  a  little  way  to  open  to  a  circle  of  white 
in  the  midst  of  which  was  the  black  muzzle.  At 
the  point  of  each  nostril  was  the  tiniest  speck  of 
pink,  Beauty's  last  triumphant  touch. 

As  he  came  to  rest  before  the  window  the  crea 
ture  leaped  forward  with  joyous  madness,  reared 


56  BUNKER  BEAN 

two  clumsy  white  feet  against  the  glass  (those  feet 
that  seemed  to  have  been  meant  for  a  larger  dog), 
barked  ably  —  he  could  hear  it  even  above  the 
din  of  an  elevated  train  —  and  then  fell  to  a 
frantic  licking  of  the  glass  where  Bean  had  pro 
vocatively  spread  a  hand.  Perceiving  this  inti 
macy  to  be  thwarted  by  some  mysterious  barrier 
to  be  felt  but  not  seen,  he  backed  away,  fell  for 
ward  upon  his  chest,  the  too-big  paws  outspread, 
and  smiled  from  a  vasty  pink  cavern.  Between 
the  stiffened  ears  could  be  seen  the  crooked  tail, 
tinged  with  just  enough  of  the  brown,  in  unbeliev 
ably  swift  motion.  Discovering  this  pose  to  bring 
no  desired  result,  he  ran  mad  in  the  sawdust,  exca 
vating  it  feverishly  with  his  forepaws,  sending  it 
expertly  to  the  rear  with  the  others. 

The  fever  passed;  he  surveyed  his  admirer  for 
a  moment,  then  began  to  revolve  slowly  upon  all 
four  feet  until  he  had  made  in  the  sawdust  a  bed 
that  suited  him.  Into  this  he  sank  and  was  in 
stantly  asleep,  his  slenderness  coiled,  the  heavy 
head  at  rest  on  a  paw,  one  ear  drooping  wearily, 
the  other  still  erect. 

For  two  weeks  this  daily  visit  had  been  almost 
the  best  of  Bean's  secrets.  For  two  weeks  he 
had  known  that  his  passion  was  hopeless,  yet  had 
he  yearned  out  his  heart  there  before  the  endearing 
thing.  In  the  shock  of  his  first  discovery,  spurred 
to  unwonted  daring,  he  had  actually  penetrated 
the  store  meaning  to  hear  the  impossible  price. 
But  an  angry-looking  old  man  (so  Bean  thought) 
had  come  noisily  from  a  back  room  and  glowered 


BUNKER  BEAN  57 

at  him  threateningly  over  big  spectacles.  So  he 
had  hastily  priced  a  convenient  jar  of  goldfish  for 
which  he  felt  no  affection  whatever,  mumbled 
something  about  the  party's  calling,  himself,  next 
day,  and  escaped  to  the  street.  Anyway,  it  would 
have  been  no  good,  asking  the  price;  it  was  bound 
to  be  a  high  price;  and  he  couldn't  keep  a  dog;  and 
if  he  did,  a  policeman  would  shoot  it  for  being 
mad  when  it  was  only  playing. 

But  some  time  —  yet,  would  it  be  this  same 
animal?  In  all  the  world  there  could  not  be  an 
other  so  acceptable.  He  shivered  with  apprehen 
sion  each  day  as  he  neared  the  place,  lest  some 
connoisseur  had  forestalled  him.  He  quickened 
to  a  jealous  distrust  of  any  passerby  who  halted 
beside  him  to  look  into  the  window,  and  felt  a 
great  relief  when  these  passed  on. 

Once  he  had  feared  the  worst.  A  man  beside 
him  holding  a  candy-eating  child  by  the  hand  had 
said,  "Now,  now,  sir!"  and,  "Well,  well,  was  he  a 
nice  old  doggie!"  Then  they  had  gone  into  the 
store,  very  businesslike,  and  Bean  had  felt  that 
he  might  be  taking  his  last  look  at  a  loved  one. 
Lawless  designs  throbbed  in  his  brain  —  a  wild 
plan  to  shadow  the  man  to  his  home  —  to  have 
that  dog,  no  matter  how.  But  when  they  came 
out  the  child  carried  nothing  more  than  a  wicker 
cage  containing  two  pink-eyed  white  rabbits  that 
were  wrinkling  their  noses  furiously. 

With  a  last  cherishing  look  at  most  of  the  beauty 
in  all  the  world  —  it  still  slept  despite  the  tearing 
clatter  of  a  parrot  with  catarrhal  utterance  that 


38  BUNKER  BEAN 

shrieked  over  and  over,  "Oh,  what  a  fool!  Oh, 
what  a  fool!"  —  he  turned  away.  What  need 
to  say  that,  with  half  the  opportunity,  his  early 
infamy  of  the  shell  would  have  been  repeated.  He 
wondered  darkly  if  the  old  man  left  that  dog  in  the 
window  nights! 

He  reached  for  his  watch  before  he  remembered 
its  loss.  Then  he  reminded  himself  bitterly  that 
street  clocks  were  abundant  and  might  be  looked 
at  by  simpletons  who  couldn't  keep  watches.  He 
bought  an  evening  paper  that  shrieked  with  hydro- 
cephalic  headlines  and  turned  into  a  dingy  little 
restaurant  advertising  a  "Regular  Dinner  de 
luxe  with  Dessert,  35  cts." 

There  was  gloom  rather  than  gusto  in  his 
approach  to  the  table.  He  expected  little;  every 
thing  had  gone  wrong;  and  he  was  not  surprised 
to  note  that  the  cloth  on  the  table  must  also  have 
served  that  day  for  a  "Business  Men's  Lunch,  35 
cts.,"  as  advertised  on  a  wall  placard.  Several 
business  men  seemed  to  have  eaten  there  —  care 
less  men,  their  minds  perhaps  on  business  while 
they  ate.  A  moody  waiter  took  his  order,  feebly 
affecting  to  efface  all  stains  from  the  tablecloth  by 
one  magic  sweep  of  an  already  abused  napkin. 

Bean  read  his  paper.  One  shriek  among  the 
headlines  was  for  a  railroad  accident  in  which 
twenty-eight  lives  had  been  lost.  He  began  to  go 
down  the  list  of  names  hopefully,  but  there  was 
not  one  that  he  knew.  Although  he  wished  no  evil 
to  any  person,  he  was  yet  never  able  to  suppress  a 
strange,  perverse  thrill  of  disappointment  at  this 


BUNKER  BEAN  59 

result  —  that  there  should  be  the  name  of  no  one 
he  knew  in  all  those  lists  of  the  mangled.  His 
food  came  and  he  ate,  still  striving  —  the  game  of 
childhood  had  become  unconscious  habit  with  him 
now  —  to  make  his  meat  and  potatoes  "come  out 
even."  The  dinner  de  luxe  was  too  palpably  a 
soggy  residue  of  that  Business  Men's  Lunch.  It 
fittingly  crowned  the  afternoon's  catastrophes. 
He  turned  from  it  to  his  paper  and  Destiny  tied 
another  knot  on  his  bonds.  There  it  was  in  bold 
print: 

COUNTESS  CASANOVA 

Clairvoyant Clairaudient 

Psychometric. 

Fresh  from  Unparalleled  European  Triumphs. 
Answers  the  Unasked  Question. 

There  was  more  of  it.  The  Countess  had  been 
" prevailed  upon  by  eminent  scientists  to  give  a 
brief  series  of  tests  in  this  city."  Evening  tests 
might  be  had  from  8  to  10  P.M.  Ring  third  bell. 

The  old  query  came  back,  the  old  need  to  know 
what  he  had  been  before  putting  on  this  present 
very  casual  body.  Was  his  present  state  a  reward 
or  a  penance?  From  the  time  of  leaving  the  office 
to  the  last  item  in  that  sketchy  dinner,  he  had  been 
put  upon  by  persons  and  circumstances.  It  was 
time  to  know  what  life  meant  by  him. 

And  here  was  one  who  answered  the  unasked 
question! 

Precisely  at  eight  he  rang  the  third  bell,  climbed 
two  flights  of  narrow  stairs  and  faced  a  door  that 


60  BUNKER  BEAN 

opened  noiselessly  and  without  visible  agency. 
He  entered  a  small,  dimly  lighted  room  and  stood 
there  uncertainly.  After  a  moment  two  heavy 
curtains  parted  at  the  rear  of  the  room  and  the 
Countess  Casanova  stood  before  him.  It  could 
have  been  no  other;  her  lustrous,  heavy-lidded 
dark  eyes  swept  him  soothingly.  Her  hair  was  a 
marvellously  piled  storm-cloud  above  a  full,  well- 
rounded  face.  Her  complexion  was  wonderful. 
One  very  plump,  very  white  hand  rested  at  the 
neck  of  the  flowing  scarlet  robe  she  wore.  A 
moment  she  posed  thus,  beyond  doubt  a  being 
capable  of  expounding  all  wingy  mysteries  of  any 
soul  whatsoever. 

Then  she  became  alert  and  voluble.  She  took 
his  hat  and  placed  it  in  the  hall,  seated  him  before 
the  table  at  the  room's  centre  and  sat  confronting 
him  from  the  other  side.  She  filled  her  chair.  It 
could  be  seen  that  she  was  no  slave  to  tight 
lacing. 

Although  foreign  in  appearance,  the  Countess 
spoke  with  a  singularly  pure  and  homelike 
American  accent.  It  was  the  speech  he  was 
accustomed  to  hear  in  Chicago.  It  reassured  him. 

The  Countess  searched  his  face  with  those 
wonderful  eyes. 

"You  are  intensely  psychic,"  she  announced. 

Bean  was  aware  of  this.  Every  medium  he  had 
ever  consulted  had  told  him  so. 

The  Countess  gazed  dreamily  above  his  head. 

"Your  spiritual  aura  is  clouded  by  troubled 
curnts,  as  it  were.  I  see  you  meetin'  a  great  loss, 


BUNKER  BEAN  61 

but  you  mus*  take  heart,  for  a  very  powerful 
band  on  the  other  side  is  guardin'  you  night  an' 
day.  They  tell  me  your  initials  is  'B.  B.'  You 
are  employed  somewheres  in  the  daytime.  I  see 
a  big  place  with  lots  of  other  people  employed 
there " 

The  Countess  paused.     Bean  waited  in  silence. 

"Here"  —  she  came  out  of  the  clouds  that 
menaced  her  sitter  —  "take  this  pad  an'  write 
a  question  on  it.  Don't  lemme  see  it,  mindl 
When  you  got  it  all  wrote  out,  fold  it  up  tight 
an'  hold  it  against  your  forehead.  Never  leggo 
of  it,  not  once!" 

Bean  wrote,  secretly,  well  below  the  table's 
edge. 

"  Who  was  I  in  my  last  incarnation?" 

He  tore  the  small  sheet  from  the  pad,  folded  it 
tightly  and,  with  elbows  on  the  table,  pressed  it 
to  his  brow.  If  the  Countess  answered  that  ques 
tion,  then  indeed  was  she  a  seer. 

She  took  up  the  pad  from  which  he  had  torn  the 
sheet. 

"Concentrate,"  she  admonished  him.  "Let 
the  whole  curnt  of  your  magnetism  flow  into  that 
question.  Excuse  me!  I  left  the  slate  in  the 
nex'  room.  My  control  will  answer  you  on  the 
slate." 

She  withdrew  between  the  curtains,  but  reap 
peared  very  soon.  Bean  was  concentrating.  * 

"That'll  do,"  said  the  Countess.  "Here!" 
She  presented  him  with  a  double  slate  and  a  moist 
sponge.  "Wipe  it  clean." 


62  BUNKER  BEAN 

He  washed  the  surfaces  of  the  slate  and  the  seer 
placed  it  upon  the  table  between  them,  enclosing 
within  its  two  sections  a  tiny  fragment  of  slate 
pencil.  She  placed  her  hands  upon  the  slate  and 
bade  her  sitter  do  likewise. 

"  You  often  hear  skeptics  say  they  is  sometimes 
trickery  in  this,"  said  the  Countess,  "but  say, 
listen  now,  how  could  it  be?  I  leave  it  to  you, 
friend.  I  ain't  seen  your  question;  you  held  it  a 
minute  and  then  put  it  in  your  pocket.  An'  you 
seen  the  slate  was  clean.  Now  concentrate;  go 
into  the  Silence!" 

Bean  went  into  the  Silence  without  suspicion, 
believing  the  Countess  would  fail.  She  couldn't 
know  his  question  and  no  human  power  could 
write  on  the  inside  of  that  slate  without  detection. 
He  waited  with  sympathy  for  the  woman  who  had 
overestimated  her  gifts. 

Then  he  was  startled  by  the  faintest  sound  of 
scratching,  as  of  a  pencil  on  a  slate.  It  seemed 
to  issue  from  beneath  their  hands  at  rest  there  in 
plain  sight.  The  medium  closed  her  eyes.  Bean 
waited,  his  breath  quickening.  Little  nervous 
crinklings  began  at  the  roots  of  his  hair  and 
descended  his  spine  —  that  scratching,  faint,  yet 
vigorous,  did  it  come  from  beyond  the  veil? 

The  scratching  ceased.  The  ensuing  silence 
was  portentous. 

"Open  it  and  look!"  commanded  the  Countess. 
And  Bean  forthwith  opened  it  and  looked  a  little 
way  into  his  dead  and  dread  past.  Apparently 
upon  the  very  surface  he  had  washed  clean  were 


BUNKER  BEAN  63 

words  that  seemed  to  have  been  hurriedly  in 
scribed: 

"  The  last  time  you  was  Napolen  Bonopart" 

He  stared  wonderingly  at  those  marks  made  by- 
no  mortal  hand.  He  thrilled  with  a  vast  elation; 
and  yet  instantly  a  suspicion  formed  that  here  was 
something  to  his  discredit,  something  one  wouldn't 
care  to  have  known.  He  had  read  as  little 
history  as  possible,  yet  there  floated  in  his  mind 
certain  random  phrases,  "A  Corsican  upstart," 
"An  assassin,"  "No  gentleman!" 

"I  —  I  suppose  —  you're  sure  there  can't  be 
any  doubt  about  this?" 

He  looked  pleadingly  at  the  Countess.  But  the 
Countess  was  a  mere  psychic  instrument,  it 
seemed,  and  had  to  be  told,  first  of  the  question- — 
he  produced  it  with  a  suspicion  that  she  might 
doubt  his  honesty  —  and  then  of  the  astounding 
answer.  Thus  enlightened,  she  protested  that 
there  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  truth  of  the 
answer;  she  was  ready  to  stake  her  professional 
reputation  on  its  truth.  She  regarded  Bean  with 
an  awe  which  she  made  no  attempt  to  conceal. 

"You  had  your  day"  she  said  significantly; 
"pomps  and  powers  and  —  and  attentions!" 

Bean  was  excitedly  piecing  together  what  frag 
ments  of  data  his  reading  had  left  him. 

"Emperor  of  France " 

But  some  one  else  had  rung  the  third  bell,  per 
haps  one  of  those  scientists  coming  to  be  dum- 
founded. 

"He  was,"  the  Countess  replied  hurriedly,  "the 


64  BUNKER  BEAN 

husban'  of  Mary  Antonett,  an'  they  both  got 
arrested  and  gilletined  in  the  great  French  revolu 


tion." 


He  was  pretty  certain  that  this  was  incorrect, 
but  the  Countess,  after  all,  was  a  mere  instrument 
of  higher  intelligence,  and  she  now  made  no  pre 
tence  of  speaking  otherwise  than  humanly. 

"An'  my  controls  say  they'll  leave  me  in  a 
body  if  I  take  a  cent  less  'n  three  dollars." 

One  of  the  controls  seemed  to  be  looking  this 
very  threat  or  something  like  it  from  the  medium's 
sharpened  eyes. 

Bean  paid  hastily,  thus  averting  what  would 
have  been  a  calamity  to  all  earnest  students  of 
the  occult.  The  advertisement,  it  is  true,  had 
specifically  mentioned  one  dollar  as  the  accustomed 
honorarium,  but  this  was  no  time  to  haggle. 

Napoleon! 

"Don't  furgit  the  number,"  urged  the  Countessv 
"an'  if  you  got  any  friends,  I'd  appreciate " 

"Certainly!  Sure  thing!"  said  the  palpitating 
one,  and  blindly  felt  his  way  into  the  night. 

The  same  stars  shone  above  the  city  street;  the. 
same  heedless  throng  disregarded  them;  disre 
garded,  too,  the  slight  figure  that  paused  a  ma< 
ment  to  survey  the  sky  and  the  world  beneath  it 
through  a  new  pair  of  eyes. 

Napoleon! 


IV 

HE  WALKED  buoyantly  home.  He  had  a 
room  at  the  top  of  a  house  in  an  uptown 
cross-street.  Having  locked  his  door  and 
lighted  a  gas-jet  he  stood  a  long  time  before  his 
mirror.  It  was  a  friendly  young  face  he  saw  there, 
but  troubled.  The  hair  was  pale,  the  eyes  were 
pale,  the  nose  small.  The  mouth  was  rather  fine, 
cleanly  cut  and  a  little  feminine.  The  chin  was 
not  a  fighter's  chin,  yet  neither  chin  nor  mouth 
revealed  any  weakness.  He  scanned  the  features 
eagerly,  striving  to  relate  them  with  vaguely  re 
membered  portraits  of  Napoleon.  He  was  about 
the  same  height  as  the  Little  Corporal,  he  seemed 
to  recall,  but  an  eagle  boldness  was  lacking.  Did 
he  possess  it  latently?  Could  he  develop  it? 
He  must  have  books  about  this  possible  former 
self  of  his.  He  had  early  become  impatient  of 
written  history  because  when  it  says  sixteen  hun 
dred  and  something  it  means  the  seventeenth 
century.  If  historians  had  but  agreed  to  call 
sixteen  hundred  and  something  the  sixteenth 
century,  he  would  have  read  more  of  them.  It 
was  annoying  to  have  to  stop  to  figure. 

Before  retiring  he  went  through  certain  exer 
cises  with  an  unusual  vehemence.  He  was  taking 
a  course  in  jiu-jitsu  from  a  correspondence  school. 

6s 


66  BUNKER  BEAN 

Aforetime  he  had  dreamed  of  a  street  encounter 
with  some  blustering  bully  twice  his  size,  from 
which,  thanks  to  his  skill,  he  would  emerge  un- 
scarred,  unruffled,  perhaps  flecking  a  bit  of  dust 
from  one  slight  but  muscular  shoulder  while  his 
antagonist  lay  screaming  with  pain. 

With  the  approach  of  sleep  all  his  half-doubts 
were  swept  away.  Of  course  he  had  been  Napo 
leon.  He  could  almost  remember  Marengo  —  or 
was  it  Austerlitz?  There  was  a  vague  but  not  dis 
tressing  uncertainty  as  to  which  of  these  con 
flicts  he  had  directed,  but  he  could  —  almost  — 
remember. 

And  he  had  been  one  who  commanded,  and 
who,  therefore,  would  make  nothing  of  pricing  a 
dog.  He  would  enter  that  store  boldly  to 
morrow,  give  its  proprietor  glare  for  glare,  and 
demand  to  be  told  the  price  of  the  creature  in 
the  window.  Napoleon  would  have  made  noth 
ing  of  it. 


The  old  man  came  noisily  from  his  back  room 
and  again  glowered  above  his  spectacles.  But 
this  time  he  faced  no  weakling  who  made  a  sub 
terfuge  of  undesired  goldfish. 

Bean  gulped  once,  it  is  true,  before  words  would 
come. 

"I  —  uh  —  what's  the  price  of  that  dog  in  the 
window?" 

The  old  man  removed  his  spectacles,  ran  a  hand 


BUNKER  BEAN  67 

through  upstanding  white  hair,  and  regarded  his 
questioner  suspiciously. 

"You  vant  him,  hey?  Veil,  I  tell.  Fifdy 
dollars,  you  bed  your  life!" 

The  blood  leaped  in  his  veins.  He  had  expected 
to  hear  a  hundred  at  least.  Still,  fifty  was  a 
difficult  enough  sum.  He  hesitated. 

"Er  —  what's  his  name?" 

"Naboleon." 

"What?"  He  could  not  believe  this  thing. 

"Naboleon.  It  comes  in  his  bedigree  when  I 
giddim.  You  bed  your  life  I  gif  him  nod  such 
names  —  robber,  killer,  Frenchman!" 

Bean  felt  assaulted. 

"He  was  a  fighter?" 

"Yah,  fider  —  a  killer  unt  a  sdealer.  You 
know  what?"  —  his  face  lightened  a  little  with 
garrulity  —  "my  granmutter  she  seen  him,  yah, 
sure  she  seen  him,  seddin'  on  his  horse  when  he 
gone  ridin'  into  Utrecht  in  eighdeen  hunderd  fife, 
with  soljus.  Sure  she  seen  him;  she  loogs  outer  a 
winda'  so  she  could  touch  him  if  she  been  glose 
to  him,  unt  a  soljus  rides  oop  unt  says,  'Ve  gamp 
right  here,  not?'  unt  Naboleon  he  shneer  awful 
unt  say,  'Gamp  here  vere  dey  go  inter  dem  cellus 
from  der  ganal-side  unt  get  unter  us  unt  blow  us 
high  wit  bowder  —  you  sheep's  head!  No;  ve 
gamp  back  in  der  Malibaan  vere  is  old  linden  drees 
hunderd  years  old,  eighd  rows  vun  mile  long,  dere 
is  vere  ve  gamp,  you  gread  fool !'  Sure  my  gran- 
mutter  seen  him.  He  pull  his  nose  mit  t'um  unt 
finger,  so!  Muddy  boods,  vun  glofe  off,  seddin' 


68  BUNKER  BEAN 

oop  sdraighd  on  a  horse.  Sure,  she  seen  him. 
Robber  imt  big  killer-sdealer!  She  vas  olt  lady, 
but  she  remember  it  lige  it  was  to-morrow." 

Excitement  engendered  by  this  reminiscence  had 
well-nigh  made  Bean  forget  the  dog.  Once  he 
had  made  people  afraid.  The  world  had  trembled 
before  him.  Policemen  had  been  as  insects. 

"I'll  take  that  dog,"  he  announced  royally  — 
then  faltered  —  "but  I  haven't  the  money  now. 
You  keep  him  for  me  till  I  get  it." 

"  Yah,  you  know  vot?  A  olt  man,  lige  me,  say 
that  same  ofer  lasd  mont'  ago,  unt  I  nefer  see  him 
until  yet!" 

It  was  a  time  for  extreme  measures.  Bean 
pressed  seven  dollars  upon  the  dog's  owner. 

"And  ten  dollars  every  week;  maybe  more!" 

The  old  man  stowed  the  bills  in  a  pocket  under 
his  apron  and  scratched  the  head  of  the  parrot 
that  was  incisively  remarking,  "Oh!  What  a  fool!" 
and  giggling  fatuously  at  its  own  jest. 

"I  guess  you  giddim.  I  guess  mebbe  you  lige 
him,  hey!  He  iss  a  awful  glutton  to  eat!" 

Napoleon! 

And  in  the  street  car  the  first  headline  he  saw 
in  his  morning  paper  was,  "Young  Napoleon  of 
Finance  Flutters  Wall  Street!" 

The  thing  was  getting  uncanny. 


A  Napoleon  of  Finance! 

Something,    Napoleonic    at    least    for    Bunker 


It  was  a  friendly  young  face  he  saw  there,  but  troubled 


BUNKER  BEAN  69 

Bean,  had  to  be  done  in  finance  immediately.  He 
had  reached  the  office  penniless.  He  first  tried 
Bulger,  who  owed  him  ten  dollars.  But  this  was  a 
Waterloo. 

"Too  bad,  old  top!"  sympathized  Bulger.  "If 
you'd  only  sejested  it  yesterday.  But  you  know 
how  it  is  when  a  man's  out;  he's  got  to  make  a 
flash;  got  to  keep  up  his  end." 

He  considered  the  others  in  the  office.  Most 
of  them,  he  decided,  would,  like  Bulger,  have  been 
keeping  their  ends  up.  Of  course,  there  was 
Breede.  But  Napoleon  at  his  best  would  never 
have  tried  to  borrow  money  of  Breede,  not  even 
on  the  day  of  his  coronation.  Tully,  the  chief 
clerk,  was  equally  impossible.  Tully's  thick 
glasses  magnified  his  eyes  so  that  they  were 
terrible  to  look  at.  Tully  would  reach  out  a 
nerveless  hand  and  draw  forth  the  quivering  heart 
of  his  secret.  Tully  would  know  right  off  that  a 
man  could  have  no  respectable  reason  for  borrow 
ing  five  dollars  on  Thursday. 

There  remained  old  Metzeger  who  worked 
silently  all  day  over  a  set  of  giant  ledgers,  inter 
minably  beautifying  their  pages  with  his  meticul 
ous  figures.  True,  Bean  had  once  heard  Bulger 
fail  interestingly  to  borrow  five  dollars  of  Metzeger 
until  Saturday  noon,  but  a  flash  of  true  Napoleonic 
genius  now  enabled  him  to  see  precisely  why 
Bulger  had  not  succeeded.  Metzeger  lived  for 
numerals,  for  columned  digits  alone.  He  carried 
thousands  of  them  in  his  head  and  apparently 
little  else.  He  could  tell  to  the  fraction  of  a  cent 


70  BUNKER  BEAN 

what  Union  Pacific  had  opened  at  on  any  day  you 
chose  to  name.  He  had  a  passion  for  odd  amounts. 
A  flat  million  as  a  sum  interested  him  far  less  than 
one  like  $107.69!.  He  could  remember  it  longer. 
It  was  necessary  then  to  appeal  to  the  poetry  in 
the  man. 

A  long  time  from  across  his  typewriter  he  stud 
ied  old  Metzeger,  tall,  angular,  his  shoulders 
lovingly  rounded  above  one  of  the  ledgers,  a 
green  shade  pulled  well  over  his  eyes,  perhaps  to 
conceal  the  too-flagrant  love-light  that  shone  there 
for  his  figures.  Napoleon  had  won  most  of  his 
battles  in  his  tent. 

Bean  arose,  moved  toward  the  other  and  spoke 
in  clear,  cool  tones. 

"Mr.  Metzeger,  I  want  to  borrow  five  dol 
lars " 

The  old  man  perceptibly  stiffened  and  bent  his 
head  lower. 

" five  dollars  and  eighty-seven  cents  until 

Saturday  at  ten  minutes  past  twelve." 

Metzeger  looked  up,  surveying  him  keenly  from 
under  the  green  shade. 

" #00;  much?' 

"Five  eighty-seven." 

There  was  a  curious  relenting  in  the  sharpened 
old  face.  The  man  had  been  struck  in  a  vital 
spot.  With  his  fine-pointed  pen  he  affectionately 
wrote  the  figures  on  a  pad:  "$5.87 — 12:10." 
They  were  ideal;  they  vanquished  him.  Slowly 
he  counted  out  money  from  various  pockets,  but 
the  sum  was  $5.90. 


BUNKER  BEAN  71 

"Bring  me  the  change/'  he  said. 

Bean  brought  it  from  the  clerk  who  kept  the 
stamp-box.  Metzeger  replaced  three  pennies  in  a 
pocket,  and  Bean  moved  off  with  the  sum  he  had 
demanded,  feeling  almost  as  once  he  might  have 
felt  after  Marengo. 

It  must  be  true!  He  couldn't  have  done  the 
thing  yesterday. 

He  omitted  his  visit  to  the  dog  that  day  and 
loitered  for  an  hour  in  a  second-hand  bookshop  he 
had  often  passed.  He  remembered  it  because  of 
a  coloured  print  that  hung  in  the  window,  "The 
Retreat  from  Moscow."  He  had  glanced  care 
lessly  enough  at  this,  hardly  noting  who  it  was 
that  headed  the  gloomy  procession.  Now  he 
felt  the  biting  cold,  and  shivered,  though  the  day 
was  warm.  There  were  pleasanter  prints  inside. 
In  one,  Napoleon  with  sternly  folded  arms  gazed 
down  at  a  sleeping  sentry.  In  another  he  re 
viewed  troops  at  Fontainebleau,  and  again,  from 
an  eminence,  he  overlooked  a  spirited  battle, 
directing  it  with  a  masterly  wave  of  his  sabre. 
These  things  were  a  little  disconcerting  to  one 
in  whom  the  blood-lust  had  diminished.  He  was 
better  pleased  with  a  steel  engraving  of  the  coro 
nation,  and  this  he  secured  for  a  trifle.  It  was  a 
thing  to  nourish  an  ailing  ego,  a  scene  to  draw 
sustenance  from  when  people  overwhelmed  you  in 
street  cars  and  took  your  gold  watch. 

Then  there  were  books  about  Napoleon,  a  whole 
shelf  of  them.  A  lot  of  authors  had  thought  him 
worth  writing  about.  He  examined  several  vol- 


72  BUNKER  BEAN 

umes.  One  was  full  of  dreadful  caricatures  that 
the  English  had  delighted  in.  He  found  this  most 
offensive  and  closed  it  quickly.  Probably  that 
explained  why  he  had  always  felt  an  instinctive 
antipathy  for  the  English. 

"If  you're  interested  in  Napoleon  things " 

said  the  officious  clerk,  and  Bean  went  cold.  He 
wondered  if  the  fellow  suspected  something. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  alii"  he  protested,  and  re 
fused  to  look  at  any  more  books. 

He  took  his  print  of  the  coronation,  securely 
wrapped,  and  went  to  another  store  several  blocks 
away.  He  could  get  a  Napoleon  book  there, 
where  they  wouldn't  be  suspicious.  He  found  one 
that  looked  promising,  "Napoleon,  Man  and 
Lover,"  and  still  another  entitled  "The  Hundred 
Days."  The  latter  had  illustrations  of  the  tomb, 
which  he  noted  was  in  Paris.  Its  architecture 
impressed  him,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  he  held 
the  book  open.  He  had  been  buried  with  pomp, 
even  with  flamboyance.  Robber  and  killer  he 
might  have  been,  but  the  picture  showed  a  throng 
of  admiring  spectators  looking  down  to  where  the 
dead  colossus  was  chested,  and  on  the  summit  of 
the  dome  that  rounded  above  that  kingly  sar 
cophagus,  a  discriminating  nation  had  put  the 
cross  of  Christ  in  gold. 

Let  people  say  what  they  would !  With  all  this 
glory  of  sepulchre  there  must  be  something  in  the 
man  not  to  be  wholly  ashamed  of. 

And  yet  "Napoleon,  Man  and  Lover,"  which  he 
read  that  night,  confirmed  his  first  impression  that 


BUNKER  BEAN  73 

this  strangely  uncovered  incident  in  his  Karmic 
past  was,  on  the  whole,  scandalous;  not  a  thing  he 
would  like  to  have  "get  about."  He  sympathized 
with  the  poor  boy  driven  from  his  Corsican  home, 
with  the  charity  student  of  Brienne,  with  the 
young  artillery  officer,  dreaming  impossible  dreams. 
But  as  lover  —  he  blushed  for  that  ruthless  dead 
self  of  his;  the  Polish  woman,  the  little  actress, 
sending  for  them  as  if  they  were  merchandise.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  even  the  not  too-fastidious 
Bulger  would  have  been  offended  by  such  direct 
brutality. 

Well,  he  was  paying  dearly  for  it  now;  afraid 
to  venture  into  the  presence  of  a  couple  of  swell 
dames  not  invincibly  austere,  lacking  the  touch- 
and-go  gallantry  of  a  mere  Bulger  who  had  prob 
ably  never  been  anybody  worth  mentioning. 

And  there  was  the  poor  pathetic  Louise  of 
Prussia.  Bean  had  already  fallen  in  love  with  her 
face,  observed  in  advertisements  of  the  Queen 
Quality  Shoe.  He  recalled  the  womanly  dignity 
of  the  figure  descending  the  shallow  steps,  the 
arch  accost  of  the  soft  eyes,  the  dimple  in  the 
round  check.  She  had  been  sent  to  sue  him,  the 
invader,  to  soften  him  with  blandishments.  He 
had  kept  her  waiting  like  a  lackey,  then  had  sought 
cynically  to  discover  how  far  her  devotion  to  her 
country's  safety  would  carry  her.  And  when  her 
pitiful  little  basket  of  tricks  had  been  emptied,  her 
little  traps  sprung,  he  had  sent  her  back  to  her 
husband  with  a  message  that  crushed  her  woman's 
pride  and  shattered  the  hopes  of  her  people.  He 


74  BUNKER  BEAN 

had  heard  the  word  "bounder."  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Napoleon  had  shown  himself  to  be  just 
that  —  a  fearful  and  impossible  bounder.  He 
tingled  with  shame.  He  wished  he  might  speak 
to  that  Queen  now  as  a  gentleman  would. 

And  yet  he  could  not  read  the  book  without  a 
certain  evil  quickening.  Brutal  though  his  method 
of  approach  had  been,  the  man  had  conquered 
more  than  mere  force  may  ever  conquer.  The 
Polish  woman  had  come  to  love  him;  the  little 
actress  would  have  followed  him  to  his  lonely 
island.  Others,  too  many  others,  had  confessed 
his  power. 

He  was  ashamed  of  such  a  past,  yet  read  it  with 
a  guilty  relish.  He  recalled  the  flapper  who  had 
so  boldly  met  his  glance.  He  thought  she  would 
have  been  less  bold  if  she  could  have  known  the 
man  she  looked  at.  He  placed  "Napoleon,  Man 
and  Lover "  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk  beside  the 
scarlet  cravat  he  had  feared  to  wear.  It  was  not  a 
book  to  "leave  around." 

"The  Hundred  Days,"  which  he  read  the  follow 
ing  night,  was  a  much  less  discouraging  work.  It 
told  of  defeat,  but  of  how  glorious  a  defeat!  The 
escape  from  Elba,  the  landing  in  France  and  the 
march  to  Paris,  conquering,  where  he  passed,  by 
the  sheer  magnetism  of  his  personality!  His 
spirit  bounded  as  he  read  of  this  and  of  the  fright 
ened  exit  of  that  puny  usurper  before  the  mere 
rumour  of  his  approach.  Then  that  audacious 
staking  of  all  on  a  throw  of  the  dice  —  Waterloo 
and  a  deathless  ignominy.  He  heard  the  sob- 


BUNKER  BEAN  75 

choked  voices  of  the  Old  Guard  as  they  bade  their 
leader  farewell  —  felt  the  despairing  clasp  of  their 
hands! 

Alone  in  his  little  room,  high  above  the  flaring 
night  streets,  the  timid  boy  read  of  the  Hundred 
Days,  and  thrilled  to  a  fancied  memory  of  them. 
The  breath  that  checked  on  his  lips,  the  blood  that 
ran  faster  in  his  veins  at  the  recital,  went  to 
nourish  a  body  that  contained  the  essential  part 
of  that  hero  —  he  was  reading  about  himself!  He 
forgot  his  mean  surroundings  —  and  the  timidities 
of  spirit  that  had  brought  him  thus  far  through 
life  almost  with  the  feelings  of  a  fugitive. 

The  Lords  of  Destiny  had  found  him  indeed  un- 
tractable  as  the  great  Emperor,  the  world-figure, 
and,  for  his  proudness  of  spirit,  had  decreed  that 
he  should  affrightedly  tread  the  earth  again  as 
Bunker  Bean.  Everything  pointed  to  it.  Even 
the  golden  bees  of  Napoleon!  Were  there  not 
three  B's  in  his  own  name?  The  shameful  truth 
is  that  he  had  been  christened  "Bunker  Bunker 
Bean."  His  fond  and  foolish  mother  had  thus 
ingenuously  sought  to  placate  the  two  old  Uncle 
Bunkers;  unsuccessfully,  be  it  added,  for  each  had 
affected  to  believe  that  he  took  second  place  in  the 
name.  But  the  three  B's  were  there;  did  they  not 
point  psychically  to  the  golden  bees  of  the  Corsi- 
can?  Indeed,  an  astrologist  in  Chicago  had  once 
told  him,  for  a  paltry  half-dollar,  that  those  B's  in 
his  name  were  of  a  profoundly  mystic  significance. 

Again,  he  was  of  distinguished  French  origin. 
Over  and  over  had  his  worried  mother  sought  to 


76  BUNKER  BEAN 

impress  this  upon  him.  The  family  was  an  old 
and  noble  one,  fleeing  from  France,  during  a 
Huguenot  persecution,  to  Protestant  England 
where  the  true  name  "de  Boncoeur"  had  been 
corrupted  to  "Bunker."  At  the  time  of  his  earli 
est  dissatisfaction  with  the  name  he  had  even 
essayed  writing  it  in  the  French  manner  —  "B.  de 
Boncoeur  Bien" —  supposing  "Bien"  to  be  ap 
proximate  French  for  "Bean." 

What  more  natural  than  that  the  freed  soul, 
striving  for  another  body,  should  have  selected 
one  of  distinguished  French  ancestry?  The  com 
moner  would  inevitably  seek  to  become  a  patrician. 

It  was  a  big  thing;  a  thing  to  dream  and  wonder 
and  calculate  about.  When  he  was  puzzled  or 
disturbed  he  would  resort  to  the  shell  —  a  thing 
he  had  clung  tenaciously  to  through  all  the  years  — 
sitting  before  it  a  long  time,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it 
with  hypnotic  tensity. 

What  should  it  mean  to  him?  How  was  his 
life  to  be  modified  by  it?  He  did  not  doubt  that 
changes  would  now  ensue.  He  was  already  bolder 
in  the  public  eye.  If  people  stared  superciliously 
at  him,  he  sometimes  stared  back.  That  aggres 
sive  stout  man  could  not  now  have  bullied  him 
out  of  his  seat  in  the  car  with  any  mere  looks. 

The  phrase  "Napoleon  of  Finance"  had  stayed 
in  his  mind.  Modernly  the  name  seemed  briefly 
to  suggest  some  one  who  made  a  lot  of  money  out 
of  nothing  but  audacity.  Certainly  it  was  not 
being  applied  to  soldiers  or  statesmen.  This  was 
interesting.  If  he  made  a  lot  of  money  he  could 


BUNKER  BEAN  77 

move  to  the  country  and  have  plenty  of  room  for 
the  dog.  And  it  seemed  about  the  only  field  of 
adventure  left  for  this  peculiar  genius.  He  began 
to  think  about  making  money.  He  knew  vaguely 
how  this  was  done:  you  bought  stocks  and  then 
waited  for  the  melon  to  be  cut.  You  got  on  the 
inside  of  things.  You  were  found  to  have  bought 
up  securities  that  trebled  in  value  over  night. 
Those  that  decreased  in  value  had  been  bought  by 
people  who  were  not  Napoleons.  That  was  the 
gist  of  it.  A  Napoleonic  mind  would  divine  the 
way.  "Napoleon  knew  human  nature  like  a 
book,"  said  one  of  the  inspired  historians.  That 
was  all  you  needed  to  know.  He  resolved  to 
study  human  nature. 

At  precisely  ten  minutes  past  twelve  on  the 
following  Saturday  he  laid  upon  old  Metzeger's 
desk  the  exact  sum  of  five  dollars  and  eighty-seven 
cents.  One  less  gifted  as  to  human  nature  would 
have  said,  "Thank  you!"  and  laid  down  five 
dollars  and  ninety  cents.  Bean  fell  into  neither 
trap.  Metzeger  looked  quickly  at  the  clock  and 
silently  took  the  money.  He  had  become  the 
prey  of  a  man  who  surmised  him  accurately. 

Then  occurred  one  of  those  familiar  tragedies 
of  the  wage  slave.  The  whole  week  long  he  had 
looked  forward  to  the  ball  game.  In  the  box  that 
afternoon  would  be  the  Greatest  Pitcher  the  World 
Had  Ever  Known.  This  figure  had  loomed  in  his 
mind  that  week  bigger  at  times  than  all  his  past 
incarnations.  He  was  going  to  forego  a  sight  of 
his  dog  in  order  to  be  early  on  the  ground.  He 


78  BUNKER  BEAN 

would  see  the  practice  and  thrill  to  the  first  line-up. 
He  had  lived  over  and  over  that  supreme  moment 
when  the  umpire  sweeps  the  plate  with  a  stubby 
broom  and  adjusts  his  mask. 

The  correct  coat  was  buttoned  and  the  hat  was 
being  adjusted  when  the  door  of  the  inner  office 
opened  with  a  sharp  rattle. 

"Wantcha!"  said  Breede. 

There  was  a  fateful,  trembling  moment  in  which 
Breede  was  like  to  have  been  blasted;  it  was  as  if 
the  magnate  had  wantonly  affronted  him  who  had 
once  been  the  recipient  of  a  second  funeral  in  Paris. 
Keeping  Bean  from  a  ball  game  aroused  that  one 
time  self  of  his  as  perhaps  nothing  else  would  have 
done.  But  Breede  was  Breede,  after  all,  and 
Bean  swallowed  the  hot  words  that  rose  to  his 
lips.  His  perturbation  was  such,  however,  that 
Breede  caught  something  of  it. 

" Had jer  lunch?" 

"No!"  said  Bean,  murderously. 

"Gitcha  some  quick.     Hurry!" 

He  knew  the  worst  now.  The  afternoon  was 
gone. 

"Don't  want  any!"  It  was  a  miniature  explo 
sion  after  the  Breede  manner. 

"C'mon,  then!" 

He  was  at  the  desk  and  Breede  dictated  inter 
minably.  When  pauses  came  he  wrote  scathing 
comments  on  Breede's  attire,  his  parsimony  in 
the  matter  of  food,  his  facial  defects,  and  some 
objectionable  characteristics  as"  a  human  being, 
now  perceived  for  the  first  time.  He  grew  careless 


BUNKER  BEAN  79 

of  concealing  his  attitude.  Once  he  stared  at 
Breede's  detached  cuffs  with  a  scorn  so  malevolent 
that  Breede  turned  them  about  on  the  de'sk  to  ex 
amine  them  himself.  Bean  went  white,  feeling 
"ready  for  anything!"  but  Breede  merely  contin 
ued  his  babble  about  "Federal  Express"  stock,  and 
"first  mortgage  refunding  4  per  cent,  gold  bonds," 
and  multifarious  other  imbecilities  that  now  filled 
a  darkened  world. 

He  jealously  watched  the  letters  Breede  an 
swered  and  laid  aside,  and  the  sheaf  of  reports 
that  he  juggled  from  hand  to  hand.  His  hope  had 
been  that  the  session  might  be  brief.  There  was 
no  clock  in  the  room  and  he  several  times  felt  for 
the  absent  watch.  Then  he  tried  to  estimate  the 
time.  When  he  believed  it  to  be  one  o'clock  he  di 
versified  his  notes  with  a  swift  summary  of  Breede's 
character  which  only  the  man's  bitterest  enemies 
would  have  approved.  At  what  he  thought  was 
two  o'clock  he  stripped  him  of  the  last  shreds 
of  moral  decency.  When  three  o'clock  seemed  to 
arrive  he  did  not  dare  put  down,  even  in  secretive 
shorthand,  what  he  felt  could  justly  be  said  of 
Breede.  After  that  it  was  no  good  hoping.  He 
relaxed  into  the  dulness  of  a  big  despair,  merely 
reflecting  that  Bulger's  picture  of  Breede  under  his 
heel  had  been  too  mushily  humane.  What  Bean 
wished  at  the  moment  was  to  have  Breede  tied  to 
a  stake,  and  to  be  carving  choice  morsels  from  him 
with  a  dull  knife.  He  made  the  picture  vivacious. 

At  what  he  judged  to  be  four-thirty  a  spirited 
rap  sounded  on  the  door. 


8o  BUNKER  BEAN 

"C'min,"  yelled  Breede. 

Entered  the  flapper.     Breede  looked  up. 

"Seddown!  View  of  efforts  bein'  made  b' 
cert'n  parties  t'  s'cure  'trol  of  comp'ny  by  promise 
of  creatin'  stock  script  on  div'dend  basis,  it  is 
proper  f'r  d'rectors  t'  state  policy  has  been " 

The  flapper  had  sat  down  and  was  looking  in 
tently  at  Bean.  There  was  no  coquetry  in  the 
look.  It  was  a  look  of  interest  and  one  wholly  in 
earnest.  Bean  became  aware  of  it  at  Breede's 
first  pause.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have 
lowered  his  eyes  before  an  assault  so  direct  and 
continuous.  Now  in  his  hot  rage  he  included  the 
flapper  in  the  glare  he  put  upon  her  unconscious 
father. 

He  saw  that  she  was  truly  enough  a  flapper;  not 
a  day  over  eighteen,  he  was  sure.  Not  tall;  almost 
"pudgy/'  with  a  plump,  browned  face  and  gray 
eyes  like  old  Breede's,  that  looked  through  you. 
He  noted  these  details  without  enthusiasm.  Then 
he  relented  a  little  because  of  her  dress.  The 
shoes  —  he  always  looked  first  at  a  woman's  shoes 
and  lost  interest  in  her  if  those  were  not  acceptable 
—  were  of  tan  leather  and  low,  with  decently 
high  heels.  (He  loathed  common-sense  shoes  on 
women.)  The  hose  were  of  tan  silk.  So  far  he 
approved.  She  wore  a  tailored  suit  of  blue  and 
had  removed  the  jacket.  The  shirtwaist  —  he 
knew  they  were  called  "lingerie  waists"  in  the 
windows  —  was  of  creamy  softness  and  had  the 
lines  of  the  thing  called  "style."  Her  hat  was  a 
straw  that  drooped  becomingly.  "Some  dresser, 


BUNKER  BEAN  81 

all  right!"  he  thought,  and  then,  "Why  don't  she 
take  a  look  at  old  Cufflets  there,  and  get  him  in 
right?" 

Again  and  again  he  hardened  his  gaze  upon  her. 
Her  eyes  always  met  his,  not  with  any  recognition 
of  him  as  a  human  being,  but  with  some  curious 
interest  that  seemed  remote  yet  not  impersonal. 
He  indignantly  tried  to  out-stare  her,  but  the 
thing  was  simply  not  to  be  done.  Even  looking 
down  at  her  feet  steadily  didn't  dash  her  brazen- 
ness.  She  didn't  seem  to  care  where  he  looked. 
After  a  very  few  minutes  of  this  he  kept  his  eyes 
upon  his  note-book  with  dignified  absorption. 
But  he  could  feel  her  glance. 

" to  c'nserve  investment  rep'sented  by  this 

stock  upon  sound  basis  rather  than  th'  spec'lative 
policy  of  larger  an'  fluc'chating  div'dends  yours 
ver'  truly  what  time's  'at  game  called?" 

Thus  concluded  Breede,  with  a  sudden  noisy 
putting  away  of  papers  in  an  open  drawer  at  his 
side. 

Bean  looked  up  at  him,  in  open-mouthed  fear 
for  his  sanity. 

"Hello,  Pops!"  said  the  flapper. 

"  'Lo,  Sis!     What  time's  'at  game  called?" 

"Three,"  said  Bean,  still  alarmed. 

Breede  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Jus'  got  time  to  make  it." 

He  arose  from  the  desk.  Bean  arose.  The 
flapper  arose. 

"Take  y'  up  in  car,"  said  Breede,  most  amaz 
ingly. 


82  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bean  pulled  his  collar  from  about  his  suddenly 
constricted  throat. 

"Letters!"     He  pointed  to  the  note-book. 

"Have  'em  ready  Monday  noon.  C'mon!  Two- 
thirty  now." 

The  early  hour  was  as  incredible  as  this  social 
phenomenon. 

"Daughter!"  said  Breede,  with  half  a  glance 
at  the  flapper,  and  deeming  that  he  had  performed 
a  familiar  social  rite. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you!"  said  Bean,  dazedly. 
The  flapper  jerked  her  head  in  a  double  nod. 

Of  the  interval  that  must  have  elapsed  before 
he  found  himself  seated  in  the  grandstand  be 
tween  Breede  and  the  flapper  he  was  able  to 
recall  but  little.  It  was  as  if  a  dense  fog  shut  him 
in.  Once  it  lifted  and  he  suffered  a  vision  of 
himself  in  a  swiftly  propelled  motor-car,  beside  an 
absorbed  mechanician.  He  half  turned  in  his 
seat  and  met  the  cool,  steady  gaze  of  the  flapper; 
she  smiled,  but  quickly  checked  herself  to  resume 
the  stare;  he  was  aware  that  Breede  was  at  her 
side.  And  the  fog  closed  in  again.  It  was  too 
unbelievable. 

A  bell  clanged  twice  and  his  brain  cleared.  He 
saw  the  scurry  of  uniformed  figures  to  the  field, 
the  catcher  adjusted  his  mask.  The  Greatest 
Pitcher  the  World  Has  Ever  Known  stood  non 
chalantly  in  the  box,  stooped  for  a  handful  of 
earth  and  with  it  polluted  the  fair  surface  of  a  new 
ball.  A  second  later  the  ball  shot  over  the  plate. 
The  batter  fanned,  the  crowd  yelled. 


BUNKER  BEAN  83 

^All  at  once  Bean  was  coldly  himself.  He  knew 
that  Breede  sat  at  his  right;  that  on  his  left  was  a 
peculiar  young  woman.  He  promptly  forgot  their 
identities,  and  his  own  as  well,  and  recalled  them 
but  seldom  during  the  ensuing  game. 

It  is  a  phenomenon  familiar  to  most  of  us.  The 
sons  of  men,  under  the  magic  of  that  living  dia 
mond,  are  no  longer  little  units  of  souls  jealously 
on  guard.  Heart  speaks  to  heart  naked  and  un 
ashamed;  they  fraternize  across  deeps  that  are 
commonly  impassable,  thrilling  as  one  man  to  the 
genius  of  the  double-play,  or  with  one  voice  hurl 
ing  merited  insults  at  a  remote  and  contemptuous 
umpire.  It  is  only  there,  on  earth,  that  they  love 
their  neighbour.  There  they  are  fused,  and  welded 
into  that  perfect  whole  which  is  perhaps  the  only 
colourable  imitation  ever  to  be  had  on  earth  of 
the  democracy  said  to  prevail  in  Heaven. 

There  was  no  longer  a  Bean,  a  Breede,  a  flapper. 
Instead  were  three  merged  souls  in  three  volatile 
bodies,  three  voices  that  blended  in  cheers  or 
execration.  At  any  crisis  they  instinctively  laid 
gripping  hands  upon  each  other  and,  half-rising, 
with  distended  eyes  and  tense  half-voices,  besought 
some  panting  runner  to  "Come  on!  Come  on, 
you  1  Oh,  come  on!  "  There  were  other  moments 
of  supreme  joy  when  they  were  blown  to  their  feet 
and  backs  were  impartially  pounded.  More  than 
once  they  might  have  been  observed,  with  brandish 
ing  fists,  shouting,  "Robber!  Robber!  Robber!!!'19 
at  the  unperturbed  man  behind  the  plate  who 
merely  looked  at  an  indicator  in  his  hand  and  re- 


84  BUNKER  BEAN 

sumed  his  professional  crouch  quite  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

And  there  were  moments  of  snappy,  broken 
talk,  comments  on  individual  players,  a  raking 
over  the  records.  It  was  not  Breede  who  talked  to 
Bean  then.  It  was  one  freed  soul  communicating 
with  another.  He  none  too  gently  put  Breede 
right  in  the  matter  of  Wagner's  batting  average 
for  the  previous  year  and  the  price  that  had  been 
paid  for  the  new  infielder.  And  Breede  in  spirit 
sat  meekly  at  his  feet,  grateful  for  his  lore. 

Of  an  absent  player,  Breede  said  he  was  too 
old  —  all  of  thirty-five.  He'd  never  come  back. 

"They  come  back  when  they  learn  to  play  ball 
above  the  ears,"  retorted  Bean  with  crisp  sapience. 
"How  about  old  Cy  Young?  How  about  old 
Callahan  of  the  Sox?  How  about  Wagner  out 
there  —  think  he's  only  nineteen  —  hey?  Tell 
me  that!  " 

He  looked  pityingly  at  the  man  of  millions  thus 
silenced. 

Two  men  scored  from  third  and  second,  thanks 
to  a  wild  throw. 

'* Inside  play,  there?"  said  Breede. 

"Inside,  nothing!"  retorted  Bean  arrogantly. 
"Matty  couldn't  get  back  to  second  and  they  had 
to  run.  If  that  Silas  up  there  hadn't  gone  foamy 
in  the  fighting-top  and  tried  to  hit  that  policeman 
over  by  the  fence  with  the  ball,  where'd  your 
inside  play  been?  D'you  think  the  Pirates  arc 
trying  to  help  'em  play  inside  ball?  Inside, 
nothing!" 


BUNKER  BEAN  85 

Again  Breede  looked  respectful,  and  the  flapper 
listened,  lustrous-eyed. 

The  finish  was  close.  With  two  men  out  in 
the  last  half  of  the  ninth  and  two  strikes  called 
on  the  batter,  a  none  too  certain  single  brought  in 
the  winning  run.  The  clinging  trio  shrieked  — - 
then  dazedly  fell  apart.  Life  had  gone  from  the 
magic.  The  vast  crowd  also  fell  apart  to  units, 
flooding  to  the  narrow  gates. 

Outside  Breede  looked  at  Bean  as  if,  faintly 
puzzled,  he  was  trying  to  recall  the  fellow's  face. 
One  could  fancy  him  saying,  "Prob'ly  some  chap 
works  in  m'  office." 

Father  and  daughter  entered  the  car.  Bean 
raised  his  dented  hat.  Breede  was  oblivious;  the 
flapper  permitted  herself  a  severe  double  nod. 
The  motor  chugged  violently.  Bean,  moving  on  a 
few  steps,  turned.  The  flapper  was  looking  back. 
She  stared  an  instant  then  most  astonishingly 
smiled,  a  smile  that  seemed  almost  vocal  with 
many  glad  words.  Bean  felt  himself  smile  weakly 
in  response. 

He  walked  a  long  way  before  he  took  a  car,  his 
eyes  on  the  pavement,  his  mind  filled  with  a  vision. 
When  the  flapper  smiled  it  did  something  to  him, 
but  what  it  was  he  couldn't  tell.  She  had  a  differ 
ent  face  when  she  smiled;  her  parting  lips  made  a 
new  beauty  in  the  world.  He  thought  the  golden 
brown  of  her  hair  rather  wonderful.  It  was  like 
the  golden  brown  of  the  new  dog.  He  recalled 
little  details  of  her  face,  the  short  upper  lip,  the 
forward  chin,  the  breadth  of  the  brow.  There 


86  BUNKER  BEAN 

was  something  disconcerting  about  that  brow  and 
the  eyes  like  her  father's  —  probably  have  her  own 
wayl  Then  he  remembered  that  he  must  have 
noticed  a  badge  pinned  to  the  left  lapel  of  a  jacket 
that  had  been  fashioned  —  with  no  great  difficulty, 
he  thought  —  to  give  its  wearer  the  appearance  of 
perfect  physical  development.  He  couldn't  re 
member  when  he  had  precisely  noted  this  badge, 
perhaps  in  some  frenzied  moment  in  the  game's 
delirium,  but  it  was  vividly  before  him  now  — 
"VOTES  FOR  WOMEN!"  What  did  that  sig 
nify  in  her  character?  Perhaps  something  not  too 
pleasant. 

Still  —  he  lived  again  through  the  smile  that  had 
seemed  to  speak. 


Three  days  later,  at  the  close  of  an  afternoon's 
grinding  work,  the  grim  old  man  at  the  desk  looked 
up  as  Bean  was  leaving  the  room. 

"S 'good  game!" 

"Fine!"  said  Bean,  as  he  closed  the  door. 

But  for  this  reference  and  one  other  circum 
stance  Bean  might  have  supposed  that  Breede 
had  forgotten  the  day.  The  other  circumstance 
was  an  area  of  rich  yellowish  purple  on  the  arm 
which  Breede  had  madly  gripped  in  moments  of 
ecstasy,  together  with  painful  spots  on  his  right 
side  where  the  elbow  of  Breede  had  almost  con 
tinuously  jabbed  him. 


THE  latest  Napoleonic  dynasty  was  totter 
ing.  The  more  Bean  read  of  that  possible 
former  self,  the  less  he  admired  its  mani 
festations.  A  Corsican  upstart,  an  assassin,  no 
gentleman!  It  was  all  too  true.  Very  well,  for 
that  vaunted  force  of  will,  but  to  what  base  ends 
had  it  been  applied!  He  was  merciless  to  himself, 
an  egotist  and  a  vulgarian.  How  it  would  shock 
that  woman,  as  yet  unidentified,  who  was  one  day 
to  be  the  mother  of  the  world's  greatest  left- 
handed  pitcher.  Take  the  flapper  — •  impossible, 
of  course,  but  just  as  an  example  — •  suppose  she 
ever  came  to  know  about  the  Polish  woman  and 
the  actress,  and  the  others!  How  she  would 
loathe  him!  And  you  couldn't  tell  what  minute  it 
might  become  known.  People  were  taking  an 
interest  in  such  matters.  He  wished  he  had  cau 
tioned  the  Countess  Casanova  to  keep  the  thing 
quiet.  Probably  she  had  talked. 

He  must  go  further  into  that  past  of  his. 
Doubtless  there  were  lessons  to  be  drawn  from  the 
Napoleonic  episode,  but  just  now,  when  he  was  all 
confused,  the  thing  —  he  put  it  bluntly  —  was 
"pretty  raw." 

"With  Napoleon,  to  think  was  to  act."  So  h<- 
had  read  in  one  chronicle.  Very  well,  he  would 

87 


88  BUNKER  BEAM 

act.  Again  he  would  stand,  whh  fearless  eyes, 
at  the  portal  of  the  vaulted  past. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  he  once  more  rang 
the  third  bell.  He  had  feared  that  the  Countess 
Casanova  might  have  returned  to  European  tri 
umphs,  but  the  solicitations  of  the  scientific  world 
were  still  prevailing. 

He  stood  in  the  little  parlour  and  again  the 
Countess  appeared  from  behind  the  heavy  cur 
tains,  a  plump  white  hand  at  the  throat  of  her 
scarlet  gown. 

He  was  obliged  to  recall  himself  to  her,  for  the 
Countess  began  to  tell  him  that  his  aura  was 
clouded  with  evil  curnts. 

"You  told  me  what  I  was  —  last  time,  don't 
you  remember?  You  know,  you  said,  it  was  writ 
ten  on  the  slate  what  I  was "  He  could  not 

bring  himself  to  utter  the  name.  But  the  Coun 
tess  remembered. 

"Sure;  perfectly!  And  what  was  you  wishing 
to  know  now?" 

She  surveyed  him  with  heavy-lidded  eyes,  a 
figure  of  mystery,  of  secret  knowledge. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  I  was  before  that  — 
before  him." 

The  Countess  blinked  her  eyes  rapidly,  as  if  it 
hurried  calculation. 

"And  I  don't  mean  just  before.  I  want  to  go 
'way  back,  thousands  of  years  — •  what  I  was 
first"  He  looked  helplessly  around  the  room, 
then  glanced  appealingly  at  the  Countess.  The 
flushed  and  friendly  face  was  troubled. 


BUNKER  BEAN  89 

"Well,  I  dunno."  She  pondered,  eying  her 
sitter  closely.  "Of  course  all  things  is  possible 
to  us,  but  sometimes  the  conditions  ain't  jest  right 
and  y'r  c'ntrol  can't  git  into  rapport  with  them 
that  has  been  gone  more'n  a  few  years.  Now  this 
thing  you're  after  —  I  don't  say  it  can't  be  done 
—  f'r  money." 

"If  I  learned  something  good,  I  wouldn't  care 
anything  about  the  money,"  he  ventured. 

The  Countess  glanced  up  interestedly. 

"That's  the  way  to  look  at  it,  friend,  but  how 
much  you  got  on  you?" 

"Twenty-two  dollars,"  confessed  Bean  suc 
cinctly. 

"Would  you  part  from  twenty,  if  you  was  told 
what  you  want  to  know?" 

"Yes;  I  can't  stand  that  other  thing  any 
longer." 

The  Countess  narrowed  her  eyes  briefly,  then 
became  animated. 

"Say,  listen  here,  friend!  That's  a  little  more 
delikit  work  than  I  been  doin',  but  they's  a  party 
near  here  — •  lemme  see  — — •"  She  passed  one 
of  the  plump  white  hands  over  her  brow  in  the 
throes  of  recollection.  "I  think  his  name  is 
Professor  Balthasar.  I  ain't  ever  met  him,  un 
derstand  what  I  mean?  but  they  say  he's  a 
genuine  wonder  an'  no  mistake;  tell  you  any 
thing  right  off  the  reel.  You  set  right  there  and 
lemme  go  see  if  I  can't  call  him  up  by  tele 
phone." 

She   withdrew   between    the    curtains,    behind 


90  BUNKER  BEAN 

which  she  carefully  pulled  sliding  doors.  Bean 
heard  the  murmur  of  her  voice. 

He  waited  anxiously.  His  Napoleon  self  was 
already  fading.  If  only  they  would  tell  him 
something  "  good."  Little  he  cared  for  the  twenty 
dollars.  He  could  get  along  by  borrowing  seven- 
teen-seventy-nine  from  Metzeger.  The  voice 
still  murmured.  Only  the  well-fitting  doors  pre 
vented  Bean  from  hearing  something  that  would 
have  been  of  interest  to  him. 

"That  you,  Ed?"  the  Countess  was  saying. 
"Listen  here.  'Member  th'  one  I  told  you  about, 
thinks  he's  the  original  N.  B.  —  you  know  who  — 
well  he's  a  repeater;  here  now  wantin'  t'  know  who 
he  was  before  then,  who  he  was  first  y'under- 
stand.  An'  say,  I  ain't  got  the  right  dope  for  that 
an'  I  want  you  to  get  over  here  quick's  you  can  an' 
give  him  about  a  ten-minute  spiel.  Wha's  that? 
Well,  they's  twenty,  an'  I  split  with  you.  But 
listen  here,  Ed,  I  get  the  idee  this  party's  worth 
nursin'  along.  I  dunno,  something  about  him. 
That's  why  I'm  tellin'  you.  I  want  it  done  right. 
Course,  I  could  do  enough  stallin'  muself  t'  cop 
the  twenty;  tell  him  Julius  Caesar  or  the  King  of 
China  or  somebody,  but  I  ain't  got  the  follow-up, 
an'  you  can't  tell  how  much  he  might  be  good  for 
later.  Take  my  tip:  he's  a  natural  born  believer. 
Sure,  twenty!  All  right!" 

The  doors  slid  back  and  the  Countess  reap 
peared  between  the  curtains. 

"I'm  'fraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint  you,"  she 
began.  "The  Professer  was  called  out  t'  give 


BUNKER  BEAN  91 

some  advice  to  one  the  Vandabilts.  But  I  got 
his  private  secatary  on  the  wire  an'  he's  gone  out 
to  chase  him  up.  We'll  haf  to  wait  an'  see." 

Bean  was  sorry  to  be  causing  this  trouble. 

"Perhaps  I  better  come  another  night." 

"No,  you  don't!  You  set  right  there!"  She 
seemed  to  listen  to  unspoken  words,  looking  far 
off.  "There!  My  control  says  he's  comin';  he's 
on  the  way." 

Bean  was  aghast  before  this  power. 

"'Nother  thing,"  pursued  the  Countess  in  her 
normal  manner,  "keep  perfec'ly  still  when  he 
comes.  Don't  tip  him  off  what  you  want.  Let 
him  do  the  talkin'.  If  he's  the  real  thing  he'll 
know  what  you  want.  They  say  he's  a  wonder, 
but  what  do  we  know  about  it?  Let  him  prove  it!" 

Bean  felt  that  he  and  the  Countess  were  a  pair 
of  shrewd  skeptics. 

The  third  bell  rang  and  a  heavy  tread  was  heard 
on  the  stairs.  The  mere  sound  of  its  mounting 
was  impressive.  The  Countess  laid  a  reminding 
finger  on  her  lips,  as  she  moved  toward  the  door. 

There  appeared  an  elderly  man,  in  a  black  frock- 
coat,  loose-fitting  and  not  too  garishly  new,  a  stu 
dent's  coat  rather  than  a  fop's. 

"Is  this  Perfesser  Balthasar?"  inquired  the 
Countess  in  her  best  manner. 

"At  your  service,  Madam!"  He  permitted 
himself  a  courtly  inclination,  conferred  upon  the 
Countess  a  glistening  tall  hat,  and  then  covered 
his  expansive  baldness  with  a  skullcap  of  silk 
which  he  drew  from  an  inner  pocket. 


92  BUNKER  BEAN 

"I  feared  we  was  discommoding  you,"  ventured 
the  Countess,  elegantly  apologetic;  "your  seca- 
tary  said  you  was  out  advisin'  one  the  Vanda- 
bilts " 

"A mere  trifle  in  the  day's  work,  Madam!"  He 
brushed  it  aside  with  an  eloquent  hand.  "My 
mission  is  to  serve.  You  wished  to  consult  me?" 

"Not  me;  but  this  young  gentaman  here " 

"Ah!"  He  turned  to  face  Bean,  who  had  risen, 
regarding  him  with  serious  eyes  and  twirling  a 
curled  moustache  meditatively. 

"I  see,  I  see!  An  imprisoned  soul  seeking  the 
light!"  He  came  nearer  to  Bean,  staring  intently, 
then  started  with  dramatic  suddenness  as  if  at  an 
electric  shock  from  concealed  wires. 

"What  is  this  —  what  is  this  —  what  is  this?" 

Bean  backed  away  defensively.  The  professor 
seemed  with  difficulty  to  withdraw  his  fascinated 
gaze,  and  turned  apologetically  to  the  Countess, 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Madam,  but  I  must  ask 
you  to  leave  us.  My  control  warns  me  that  I  am 
in  the  presence  of  an  individuality  stronger  than 
my  own.  His  powerful  mind  is  projecting  the 
most  vital  queries.  I  shall  be  compelled  to  dis 
close  to  him  matters  he  would  perhaps  not  wish  a 
third  person  to  overhear.  I  see  a  line  of  mighty 
rulers,  ruthless,  red-handed  —  the  past  of  his 
soul. 

The  Countess  murmurously  withdrew.  The 
two  males  faced  each  other. 

The  professor  was  a  mere  sketch  of  a  man,  ran 
dom,  rakish,  with  head  aslant  and  shifty  eyes  for- 


-ft 


BUNKER  BEAN  93 

ever  dropping  away  from  a  questioner's  face.  He 
abounded  in  inhuman  angles  and  impossible  lines. 
It  seemed  that  he  must  have  been  rather  dash 
ingly  done  in  the  first  place,  then  half  obliterated 
and  badly  mended  with  fumbling,  indecisive 
touches.  His  restless  hands  unceasingly  wrung 
each  other  as  if  he  had  that  moment  made  his  own 
acquaintance  and  was  trying  to  infuse  a  false 
geniality  into  the  meeting. 

When  he  spoke  he  had  a  trick  of  opening  his 
mouth  for  a  word  and  holding  it  so,  a  not  over- 
clean  forefinger  poised  above  an  outheld  palm. 
It  seemed  to  the  listener  that  the  word  when  it 
came  would  mean  much.  His  white  moustache 
alone  had  a  well-finished  look,  curving  jauntily 
upward. 

"Sit  there!"  An  authoritative  finger  pointed 
Bean  to  the  chair  he  had  lately  occupied. 

He  sat  nervously,  suffering  that  peculiar  appre 
hension  which  physicians  and  dentists  had  always 
inspired. 

"Most  amazing!  Most  astounding!"  muttered 
the  professor  as  if  to  his  own  ear  alone.  He  sat 
in  a  chair  facing  Bean  and  regarded  him  long  and 
intently.  At  brief  intervals  his  face  twitched,  his 
body  stiffened,  he  seemed  to  writhe  in  some  malign 
grasp. 

Bean  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair.  His  tin 
gling  nerves  were  accurately  defining  his  spine. 
He  waited,  breathless. 

"I  see  it  all,"  breathed  the  professor  in  low, 
solemn  tones,  his  eyes  fixed  above  Bean's  head. 


94  BUNKER  BEAN 

"First  the  pomp  and  glitter  of  a  throne.  You 
wrench  it  from  a  people  whose  weakness  you  play 
upon  with  a  devilish  cunning,  you  ascend  to  it 
over  the  bodies  of  countless  men  slain  in  battle. 
Power  through  blood!  You  are  cruel,  insatiable, 
a  predatory  monster.  But  retribution  comes. 
You  are  hurled  from  your  throne.  Again  you 
ascend  it,  but  only  for  a  brief  time.  You  fight 
your  last  battle;  you  lose!  You  are  captured  and 
taken  to  a  lonely  island  somewhere  far  to  the 
south,  there  to  be  imprisoned  until  your  death. 
Afterward  I  see  your  body  returned  to  the  city  that 
was  once  your  capital.  It  now  lies  in  a  heavy  stone 
coffin.  It  is  in  a  European  city.  I  can  almost 
hear  the  name,  but  not  plainly.  I  cannot  get  the 
name  under  which  you  ruled.  I  look  into  the 
abyss  and  the  cries  of  your  victims  drown  it. 
Horror  piles  upon  horror!" 

Bean  was  leaning  forward,  tense  with  excite 
ment,  his  mouth  open.  "Yes,  that's  just  the 
way  I  felt  about  it,"  he  murmured. 

"But  this  was  only  a  few  paltry  years  ago,  per 
haps  a  hundred.  It  passes  from  my  view.  I  am 
led  back,  away  from  it  —  far  back  —  the  cries  of 
those  you  slaughtered  echo  but  faintly  —  the 
scene  changes " 

The  professor  paused.  Bean  had  cowered  in 
his  chair,  wincing  under  each  blow.  He  wiped 
his  face  and  crumpled  the  moist  handkerchief 
tightly  in  one  hand. 

"Perhaps  the  name  may  come  to  me  now," 
continued  the  professor.  "But  your  superior  per- 


BUNKER  BEAN  95 

sonality  overwhelmed  me  at  first;  you  are  so  self- 
willed,  so  dominant,  so  ruthless.  The  name,  the 
name!"  He  cried  the  last  words  commandingly 
and  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  delinquent  control. 
"There!  I  seem  to  hear " 

"Never  mind  that  name,"  broke  in  Bean  has 
tily.  "Let  it  go!  I  —  I  don't  want  to  know  it. 
Go  on  back  farther!" 

Again  the  professor's  look  became  trancelike. 

"Ah!  What  a  relief  to  be  free  from  that  blood- 
lust!"  He  breathed  deeply  and  his  eyes  rolled  far 
up  under  their  lids. 

"What  is  this?  A  statesman,  still  crafty,  still 
the  lines  of  cunning  cruelty  about  the  mouth. 
The  city  is  Venice  in  the  fourteenth  century.  He 
is  dressed  in  a  richly  bejewelled  robe  and  toys  with 
an  inlaid  dagger.  He#is  plotting  the  assassination 
of  a  Doge— —  " 

"Please  get  still  farther  back,  can't  you?" 
pleaded  Bean. 

The  seer  struggled  once  more  with  his  control. 

"I  next  see  you  at  the  head  of  a  Roman  legion, 
going  forth  to  battle.  You  are  a  tyrant,  ruling 
by  fear  alone,  and  with  your  own  sword  I  see  you 
cut  off  the  heads  of " 

"Farther  back,"  beseeched  the  sitter.  "I 
—  I've  had  enough  of  all  that  battle  and  killing. 
I  —  I  don't  like  it.  Go  on  back  to  the  very  first." 

Patiently  the  adept  redirected  his  forces. 

"I  see  a  poet.  He  sings  his  deathless  lay  by  a 
roadside  in  ancient  Greece.  He  is  an  old  man, 
feeble,  blind " 


96  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Something  else,"  broke  in  the  persistent  sitter, 
resolving  not  to  pay  twenty  dollars  for  having 
been  a  blind  poet. 

The  professor  glanced  sharply  at  him.  Per 
haps  his  control  did  not  relish  these  interruptions. 
He  seemed  to  suppress  words  of  impatience  and 
began  anew. 

"Ah!  Now  I  see  your  very  first  appearance 
on  this  planet.  You  were  born  from  another  as 
yet  unknown  to  our  astronomers.  You  are  now" 

—  he    lowered   his    eyes   to    the    sitter's    face  — 
"an  Egyptian  king." 

Detecting  no  sign  of  displeasure  at  this,  he  con 
tinued  with  refreshed  enthusiasm. 

"It  is  thousands  of  years  ago.  You  are  the 
last  king  of  the  pre-dynastic  era " 

"What  kind  of  a  king  —  one  of  those  fighters?" 

"You  are  a  wise  and  good  king.  I  see  a  peace 
ful  realm  peopled  by  contented  subjects." 

"  ThaCs  what  I  want  to  know.  Go  on;  tell  me 
more.  Married?" 

"Your  wife  is  a  princess  of  rare  beauty  from 

—  from   Mesopotamia.     You   have   three   lovely 
children,  two  boys  and  a  girl,  and  your  palace  on 
the  banks  of  the  Nile  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  grand  palaces  ever  erected  by  the  hand  of 
man.     You  are  ministered  to  by  slaves,  and  your 
councillors  of  state  come  to  you  with  their  reports. 
You  arc  tall,  handsome  and  of  a  most  kingly  pres 
ence.     Your    personal   bravery   is    unquestioned, 
you  are  an  adept  in  all  manly  sports,  but  you  will 
not  go  to  war  as  you  very  properly  detest  all  vio- 


BUNKER  BEAN  97 

lence.  For  this  reason  there  is  little  to  relate  of 
your  reign.  It  was  uneventful  and  distin 
guished  only  by  your  wise  and  humane  statesman 
ship  " 

"What  name?"  asked  Bean,  in  low,  reverent 
tones. 

"The  name  —  er  — •  the  name  is  — •  oh,  yes,  I 
get  it  —  the  name  is  Ram-tah." 

"Can  I  find  him  in  the  histories?" 

"You  cannot,"  answered  the  seer  emphati 
cally.  "I  am  probably  the  only  living  man  that 
can  tell  you  very  much  about  him." 

"When  did  he  — pass  on?" 

"At  the  age  of  eighty-two  years.  He  was 
deeply  mourned  by  all  his  people.  He  had  been 
a  king  of  great  strength  of  character,  stern  at 
moments,  but  ever  just.  His  remains  received 
the  treatment  customary  in  those  times,  and  the 
mummy  was  interred  in  the  royal  sepulchre  which 
is  now  covered  by  the  sands  of  the  centuries. 
Anything  else?" 

Bean  was  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
lost  in  that  far,  glorious  past. 

"Nothing  else,  now,  I  think.  If  I  could  see 
you  again  some  time,  I'd  like  to  ask " 

"My  mission  is  to  serve,"  answered  the  other, 
caressing  the  moustache  with  a  deft  hand.  "Any 
thing  I  can  do  for  you,  any  time,  command  me." 

The  Countess  appeared  from  between  the  cur 
tains. 

"Was  the  conditions  right?"  she  asked. 

"They  have  been,  at  least  so  far,"  replied  the 


98  BUNKER  BEAN 

professor  crisply,  with  a  side-glance  at  Bean  who 
seemed  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

"Say,  friend,  I  guess  you're  forgetting  some 
thing,  ain't  you?"  demanded  the  Countess  archly. 
And  Bean  perceived  that  he  had  indeed  forgotten 
something.  He  rectified  the  oversight  with  blush 
ing  apologies,  while  the  professor  inspected  the 
mantel  ornaments  with  an  absent  air.  What  was 
twenty  dollars  to  a  king  and  a  sire  of  kings?  He 
bowed  himself  from  the  room. 

They  listened  until  the  hall  door  closed. 

"There's  yours,  Ed.  You  earned  it  all  right, 
I'll  say  that.  My!  don't  I  wish  I  was  up  on  that 
dope." 

"You  were  the  wise  lady  to  send  for  me,  Lizzie. 
You'd  have  killed  him  off  right  here.  As  it  is, 
he'll  come  back.  He's  a  clerk  somewhere,  draw 
ing  twenty-five  a  week  or  so.  He  ought  to  give 
up  at  least  five  of  it  every  week;  cigarette  money, 
anyway.  Anything  loose  in  the  house?" 

"They's  a  couple  bottles  beer  in  the  icebox. 
Gee!  ain't  he  good,  though!  If  he  only  had  the 
roll  some  has!" 


In  his  little  room  far  up  under  the  hunched 
shoulders  of  the  house,  Bunker  Bean  sat  reviewing 
his  Karmic  past.  Over  parts  of  it  he  shuddered. 
That  crafty  Venetian  plotting  to  kill,  trifling 
wickedly  with  the  inlaid  dagger;  the  brutal  Ro 
man,  ruling  by  fear,  cutting  off  heads!  And  the 


BUNKER  BEAN  99 

blind  poet!  He  would  rather  be  Napoleon  than  a 
blind  poet,  if  you  came  down  to  that.  But  the 
king,  wise,  humane,  handsome,  masterly,  with  a 
princess  of  rare  beauty  from  Mesopotamia  to  be 
the  mother  of  his  three  lovely  children.  That 
was  a  dazzling  vision  to  behold,  a  life  sane  and 
proper,  abounding  in  majesty  both  moral  and 
material. 

He  sought  to  live  over  his  long  and  peaceful 
but  brilliant  reign.  Then  he  dwelt  on  his  death 
and  burial.  They  had  made  a  mummy  of  him,  of 
course.  Somewhere  that  very  night,  at  that  very 
instant,  his  lifeless  form  reposed  beneath  the 
desert  sands.  Perhaps  the  face  had  changed  but 
little  during  the  centuries.  He,  Bunker  Bean, 
lay  there  in  royal  robes,  hands  folded  upon  his 
breast,  as  lamenting  subjects  had  left  him. 

And  what  did  it  mean  to  him  now?  He  thought 
he  saw.  As  King  Ram-tah  he  had  been  too 
peaceful.  For  all  his  stern  and  kingly  bearing 
might  he  not  have  been  a  little  timid  — •  afraid  of 
people  now  and  then?  And  the  Karmic  law  had 
swept  him  on  and  on  into  lives  that  demanded 
violence,  the  Roman  warrior,  the  Venetian  plotter, 
the  Corsican  usurper! 

He  saw  that  he  must  have  completed  one  of 
those  vast  Karmic  cycles.  What  he  had  supposed 
to  be  timidity  was  a  natural  reaction  from  Napo 
leonic  bravado.  Now  he  had  finished  the  circle 
and  was  ready  to  become  again  his  kingly  self, 
his  Ram-tah  self  —  able,  reliant,  fearless. 

He  expanded  his  chest,  erected  his  shoulders 


ioo  BUNKER  BEAN 

and  studied  himself  in  the  glass:  there  was  un 
doubted  majesty  in  the  glance.  He  vibrated  with 
some  fresh,  strange  power. 

Yes;  but  what  about  to-morrow  —  out  in  the 
world?  in  daylight,  passing  the  policeman  on  the 
corner,  down  at  the  office?  Would  he  remain  a 
king  in  the  presence  of  Breede,  even  in  the  lesser 
presence  of  Bulger,  or  of  old  Metzeger  from  whom 
he  purposed  to  borrow  seventeen  dollars  and 
seventy-nine  cents  ?  All  right  about  being  a  king, 
but  how  were  other  people  to  know  it?  Well,  he 
would  have  to  make  them  feel  it.  He  must  know 
it  himself,  first;  then  impress  it  upon  them. 

But  a  sense  of  unreality  was  creeping  back.  It 
was  almost  better  to  remember  the  Napoleon 
past.  There  were  books  about  that.  He  pic 
tured  again  the  dead  Ram-tah  in  trappings  of 
royalty.  If  he  could  only  see  himself,  and  be 
sure.  But  that  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was 
no  good  wishing.  After  all,  he  was  Bunker  Bean, 
a  poor  thing  who  had  to  fly  when  Breede  growled 
"Wantcha."  He  sat  at  his  table,  staring  moodily 
into  vacancy.  He  idly  speculated  about  Breede's 
ragged  moustache;  he  thought  it  had  been  blasted 
and  killed  by  the  words  Breede  spoke.  A  mo 
ment  later  he  was  conscious  that  he  stared  at  an 
unopened  letter  on  the  table  before  him. 

He  took  it  up  without  interest,  perceiving  that 
it  came  from  his  Aunt  Clara  in  Chicago.  She 
would  ask  if  he  had  yet  joined  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and 
warn  him  to  be  careful  about  changing  his  flan 
nels. 


BUNKER  BEAN  ,101 

"Dear  Bunker"  [it  began], -"my  own  dear  tus- 
band  passed  to  his  final  r?,st  last  Thj//suay  at 
5  P.  M.  He  was  cheerful  to  the  last  and  did  not 
seem  to  suffer  much.  The  funeral  was  on  Satur 
day  and  was  very  beautiful  and  impressive.  I 
did  not  notify  you  at  the  time  as  I  was  afraid  the 
shock  would  affect  you  injuriously  and  that  you 
might  be  tempted  to  make  the  long  trip  here  to  be 
with  me.  Now  that  you  know  it  is  all  over,  you 
can  take  it  peacefully,  as  I  am  already  doing.  The 
life-insurance  people  were  very  nice  about  it  and 
paid  the  claim  promptly.  I  enclose  the  money 
which  wipes  out  all  but — — " 

He  opened  the  double  sheet.  There  were  many 
more  of  the  closely  written  lines,  but  he  read  no 
farther,  for  a  check  was  folded  there.  His  trem 
bling  fingers  pulled  the  ends  apart  and  his  as 
tounded  eyes  rested  on  its  ornate  face. 

It  was  for  ten  thousand  dollars. 


At  six  minutes  after  eight  the  following  even 
ing  the  Countess  Casanova,  moved  from  her  pro 
fessional  calm,  hurriedly  closed  the  sliding  doors 
between  the  two  rooms  of  her  apartment  and' 
sprang  to  the  telephone  where  she  frantically  de 
manded  a  number.  The  delay  seemed  inter 
minable  to  her,  but  at  last  she  began  to  speak. 

"That  you,  Ed?  Fr  God's  sake,  beat  it  over 
here  quick.  That  boob  las'  night  is  back  here  an' 


102  BUNKER  BEAN 

he's  got  it.  i  I  dunno  —  but  something  big,  I  tell 
yoil, r-  HeYactin'  like  a  crazy  man.  Listen  here! 
He  wants  t'  know  can  you  locate  it  —  see  it  lyin' 
there  underground.  Why,  the  mummy;  yes. 
M-u-m-m-i-e.  Yes,  sure !  He's  afraid  mebbe  they 
already  dug  him  up  an'  got  him  in  a  musee  some- 
wheres,  but  if  it's  still  there  he  wants  it.  Yes,  sure 
thing,  dontchu  un'stand  ?  Wants  it !  How  in  — • 
how  can  I  tell?  That's  up  to  you.  Git  here! 
Sure  — fifty-fifty!" 

Bean  glanced  up  feverishly  as  the  Countess 
reappeared.  She  was  smoothing  her  hair  and 
readjusting  the  set  of  the  scarlet  wrapper.  Her 
own  excitement  was  apparent. 

"It's  all  right.  I  think  he'll  come,  but  it  was  a 
close  call.  He  was  jes'  packin'  his  grip  f'r  Wash'- 
n'ton.  Got  a  telegraph  from  the  Pres'dent  to-day 
t'  come  at  once.  Of  course  he'll  miss  a  big  fee. 
The  Pres'dent  don't  care  f'r  money  when  it's  a 
question  of  gittin'  th'  right  advice " 

"Oh,  money!"  murmured  Bean,  and  waved  a 
contemptuous  hand. 

His  manner  was  not  lost  upon  his  hearer. 

"Lots  of  money  made  in  a  hurry,  these  days," 
she  suggested,  "or  got  hold  of  some  way  —  gits 
left  to  parties  —  thousand  dollars,  mebbe  —  two, 
three,  four  thousand?" 

Again  he  performed  the  pushing  gesture,  as  if 
he  were  discommoded  by  money.  He  scarcely 
heard  her  voice. 

The  Countess  did  not  venture  another  effort 
to  appraise  his  wealth. 


BUNKER  BEAN  103 

She  fell  silent,  watching  him.  Bean  gazed  at  a 
clean  square  on  the  wall-paper  where  a  picture 
had  once  hung.  Then  the  authoritative  tread 
was  again  heard  on  the  stairway,  and  again  the 
Countess  Casanova  welcomed  Professor  Bal- 
thasar  to  her  apartment.  She  expressed  a  polite 
regret  for  having  annoyed  him. 

Professor  Balthasar  bestowed  his  shiny  hat 
upon  her,  enveloped  his  equally  shiny  skull  with 
the  silken  cap  and  assured  her  that  his  mission 
was  to  serve.  Bean  had  not  risen.  He  still 
stared  at  the  wall. 

"I'll  jes'  leave  you  alone  with  our  friend  here," 
said  the  Countess  charmingly.  The  professor 
questioned  her  with  a  glance  and  she  shook  her 
head  in  response,  yet  her  gesture  as  she  vanished 
through  the  curtains  was  one  of  large  encourage 
ment. 

The  professor  faced  Bean  and  coughed  slightly. 
Bean  diverted  his  stare  to  the  professor  and 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  the  other  silenced 
him  with  a  commanding  forefinger. 

"Not  a  word!  I  see  it  all.  You  impose  your 
tremendous  will  upon  me." 

He  took  the  chair  facing  Bean  and  began  swiftly: 

"I  see  the  path  over  the  desert.  I  stop  beside 
a  temple.  Sand  is  all  about.  Beneath  that  temple 
is  a  stone  sarcophagus.  Within  it  lies  the  body 
of  King  Tam-rah " 

"Ram-tahl"  corrected  Bean  gently. 

"Did  I  not  say  Ram-tah?"  pursued  the  seer. 
"There  it  has  lain  sealed  for  centuries,  while 


104  BUNKER  BEAN 

all  about  it  the  tombs  of  other  kings  have  been 
despoiled  by  curiosity  hunters  looking  for  objects 
of  interest  to  place  in  their  cabinets.  But 
Ram-tah,  last  king  of  the  pre-dynastic  period, 
though  others  will  tell  you  differently,  but  that's 
because  he  never  got  into  history  much,  by  reason 
of  his  uniformly  gentlemanly  conduct.  He  rests 
there  to-day  precisely  as  he  was  put.  I  see  it 
all;  I  penetrate  the  heaped  sands.  At  this 
moment  the  moon  shines  upon  the  spot,  and  a 
night  bird  is  calling  to  its  mate  in  the  mulberry 
tree  near  the  northeast  corner  of  the  temple.  I 
see  it  all.  I  am  there!  What  is  this?  What 
is  this  I  get  from  you,  my  young  friend?" 

The  professor  seemed  to  cock  a  psychic  ear 
toward  Bean. 

"You  want  —  ah,  yes,  I  see  what  you  want, 
but  that,  of  course,  humanly,  would  be  im 
possible.  Oh,  quite  impossible,  quite,  quite!" 

"Why,  if  you're  sure  it's  there?" 

"My  dear  sir,  you  descend  to  the  material 
world.  I  will  talk  to  you  now  as  one  practical 
man  to  another.  Simply  because  it  would  take 
more  money  than  you  can  afford.  The  thing 
is  practicable  but  too  expensive." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"  It  is  true,  I  do  not  know.  My  control  warned 
me  when  I  came  here  that  your  circumstances  had 
been  suddenly  bettered.  I  withdraw  the  words. 
I  do  not  know,  but  —  you  will  pardon  the  blunt- 
ness —  can  you  afford  it?" 

"  What'd  it  cost?    That's  what  I  want  to  know." 


BUNKER  BEAN  105 

"Hum!"  said  the  professor.  He  was  unable 
to  achieve  more  for  a  little  time.  He  hum'd 
again. 

"There's  the  labour  and  the  risk,"  he  ventured 
at  last.  "Of  course  my  agents  at  Cairo  —  I  have 
secret  agents  in  every  city  on  the  globe  —  could 
proceed  to  the  spot  from  my  carefully  worded 
directions.  They  could  do  the  work  of  excava 
ting.  So  far,  so  good!  But  they  would  have  to 
work  quietly  and  would  be  punished  if  discovered. 
Of  course  here  and  there  they  could  bribe.  Nat 
urally,  they  would  have  to  bribe,  and  that,  as 
you  are  doubtless  aware,  requires  money.  Again, 
entering  this  port  the  custom-house  officials 
would  have  to  be  bribed,  and  they've  gone  up  in 
price  the  last  few  years.  My  control  tells  me 
that  this  mummy  is  one  they've  been  looking 
hard  for.  It's  about  the  only  one  they  haven't 
found.  The  loss  will  be  discovered  and  my  men 
might  be  traced.  It  requires  an  enormous  sum. 
Now,  for  instance,  a  thousand  dollars"  —  he 
regarded  Bean  closely  and  was  reassured  —  "a 
thousand  dollars  wouldn't  any  more  than  start 
the  work.  Two  thousand"  —  his  eyes  were 
steadily  upon  Bean  now  —  "would  further  it 
some.  Three  thousand  might  see  it  pretty  well 
advanced.  Four  thousand,  of  course,  would 
help  still  farther  and  five  thousand" — he  had 
seen  the  shadow  of  dismay  creep  over  the  face  of 
his  sitter  —  "five  thousand,  I  think,  might  put 
the  thing  through." 

Bean  drew  a  long  breath.     The  professor  had 


io6  BUNKER  BEAN 

correctly  read  the  change  in  his  face  at  "five 
thousand,"  but  it  had  been  a  sudden  fear  that  his 
whole  ten  thousand  was  not  going  to  suffice  for 
this  prodigiou's  operation. 

"I  can  afford  that,"  said  Bean  shortly.  He 
hardly  dared  trust  himself  to  say  more.  His 
emotion  threatened  to  overcome  him. 

The  professor  suffered  from  the  same  danger. 
He,  too,  dared  trust  himself  to  say  no  more  than 
the  few  necessary  words. 

"There  must  be  a  payment  down,"  he  said 
with  forced  coldness. 

"How  much?" 

"A  thousand  wouldn't  be  any  too  much." 

"Enough?" 

"Well,  perhaps  not  enough,"  the  professor 
nerved  himself  to  admit. 

"I'll  give  you  two,  now.  Give  you  the  rest 
when  you  get  —  when  you  get  It  here." 

"You  move  me,  I  confess,"  conceded  the  pro 
fessor.  "I  will  undertake  it." 

"How  long  will  it  be,  do  you  think?" 

"  I  shall  give  orders  by  cable.  A  month,  possibly, 
if  all  goes  well." 

"I'll  give  you  check."  He  gulped  at  that. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  used  the  words. 

The  Countess  parted  the  curtains.  Curiously 
enough  she  carried  a  pen  and  ink,  though  no  one 
remarked  upon  the  circumstance. 

Bean  had  that  morning  left  a  carefully  written 
.signature  at  the  bank  where  his  draft  had  been 
deposited.  He  later  wondered  how  the  scrawl 


BUNKER  BEAN  107 

he  achieved  now  could  ever  be  identified  as  by 
the  same  hand. 

And  he  was  conscious,  even  as  he  wrote,  that 
the  Countess  Casanova  and  Professor  Balthasar 
were  labouring  under  an  excitement  equal  to  his 
own.  It  was  a  big  feat  to  attempt. 

As  before,  they  waited  until  he  had  closed  the 
lower  door. 

"Oh,  Ed!"  breathed  the  Countess  emotionally. 

"Anything  loose  in  the  house?"  asked  the 
professor. 

"They's  a  couple  bottles  beer  in  the  icebox, 
but  Oh,  Ed!" 


VI 

AGAIN  we  chant  pregnant  phrases  from  the 

/A  Bard  of  Dress:  "It  is  cut  to  give  the 
X  Jk  wearer  the  appearance  of  perfect  physical 
development.  And  the  effect  produced  so  im 
proves  his  form  that  he  unconsciously  strives  to 
attain  the  appearance  which  the  garment  gives 
him;  he  expands  his  chest,  draws  in  his  waist,  and 
stands  erect." 

A  psychologist,  that  Bard!  acutely  divining  a 
basic  law  of  this  absurd  human  nature.  In  a 
beggar's  rags  few  men  could  be  more  than  beg 
gars.  In  kingly  robes,  most  men  could  be  kings; 
could  achieve  the  finished  and  fearless  behaviour 
that  is  said  to  distinguish  royalty. 

Bunker  Bean,  the  divinely  credulous,  now 
daily  arrayed  himself  in  royal  vestures,  set  a 
well-fashioned  crown  upon  the  brow  of  him  and 
strode  forth,  sceptre  in  hand.  Invisible  were 
these  trappings,  to  be  sure;  he  was  still  no 
marked  man  in  a  city  street.  But  at  least  they 
were  there  to  his  own  truth-lit  eyes,  and  he  most 
truly  did  "expand  his  chest,  draw  in  his  waist, 
and  stand  erect."  Yea,  in  the  full  gaze  of  in 
humanly  large  policemen  would  he  do  these  things. 

This,  indeed,  was  one  of  the  first  prerogatives 
his  royalty  claimed.  He  discovered  that  it  was 

108 


BUNKER  BEAN  109 

not  necessary  for  any  but  criminals  to  fear  police 
men.  It  might  still  be  true  that  an  honest  man 
of  moderate  physique  and  tender  sensibilities 
could  not  pass  one  without  slight  tremors  of  self- 
consciousness;  but  by  such  they  were  —  a  most 
prodigious  thought  —  to  be  regarded  as  one's 
paid  employees;  within  the  law  one  might  even 
greet  them  pleasantly  in  passing,  and  be  answered 
civilly.  Bean  was  now  equal  to  approaching 
one  and  saying,  "Good  evening,  Officer!"  He 
would  sometimes  cross  a  street  merely  to  perform 
this  apparently  barren  rite.  It  stiffened  his 
spine.  It  helped  him  to  realize  that  he  had 
indeed  been  a  king  and  the  sire  of  kings;  that 
kingly  stuff  was  in  him. 

So  marked  an  advance  in  his  spirit  was  not 
made  in  a  day,  however.  It  came  only  after 
long  dwelling  in  thought  upon  his  splendid  past. 
And,  too,  after  he  had  envisioned  the  circum 
stance  that  he  was  now  a  man  of  means.  The 
latter  was  not  less  difficult  of  realization  than  his 
kingship.  He  had  thought  little  about  money, 
save  at  destitute  moments;  had  dreamed  of 
riches  as  a  vague,  rather  pleasant  and  not  im 
portant  possibility.  But  kings  were  rich;  no 
sooner  had  his  kingship  been  proclaimed  than 
money  was  in  his  hand.  And,  of  course,  more 
money  would  come  to  him,  as  it  had  once  come 
on  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  He  did  not  question 
how  nor  whence.  He  only  knew. 

It  was  three  days  before  he  bethought  himself 
to  finish  the  reading  of  Aunt  Clara's  letter, 


i  io  BUNKER  BEAN 

suspended  at  sight  of  the  astounding  enclosure. 
He  had  begun  that  letter  a  harried  and  trivial 
unit  of  the  toiling  masses.  He  came  to  finish  it 
a  complacent  and  lordly  figure! 

" 1  enclose  the  check  which  wipes  out  all 

but  $7,000  of  that  money  from  your  dear  mother 
with  which  dearest  Edward  so  rashly  speculated 
years  ago,  in  the  hope  of  making  you  a  wealthy 
man.  I  am  happy  to  say  that  $5,000  of  this  I 
can  pay  at  once  out  of  the  money  I  have  saved „ 
I  have  been  investing  for  years,  as  I  could  spare 
it,  in  the  stock  of  the  Federal  Express  Company,, 
and  now  have  fifty  shares,  which  I  will  transfer 
to  you  at  par,  though  they  are  quoted  a  little 
above  that,  if  you  are  willing  to  accept  them. 
The  balance  I  will  pay  when  I  have  sold  the 
house  and  furnishings,  as  with  my  dearest  hus 
band  gone  I  no  longer  have  any  incentive  to  keep 
on  working.  I  am  tired.  It  is  a  good  safe  stock 
paying  4^  per  cent,  and  I  would  advise  you  to 
keep  it  and  also  put  the  Ins.  money  into  the 
same  stock.  A  very  nice  man  in  the  Life  Ins. 
office  said  it  ought  to  pay  more  if  the  business 
was  better  managed.  If  you  turned  your  talents 
to  the  express  business  you  might  learn  to  manage 
it  yourself  because  you  always  had  a  fine  head 
for  such  things,  and  by  owning  a  lot  of  their  stock 
you  could  get  the  other  stockholders  to  elect  you 
to  be  one  of  their  directors,  which  would  be  a  fine 
occupation  for  you,  not  too  hard  work  and  plenty 
of  time  to  read  good  books  which  I  hope  you  find 


BUNKER  BEAN  in 

same  now  of  evenings  in  place  of  frittering  away 
your  time  with  associations  of  a  questionable 
character,  and  ruining  your  health  by  late  hours 
and  other  dissipation  though  I  know  you  were 
always  of  good  habits. 

"Affectionately, 

"AUNT  CLARA. 
"P.  S. —  It  has  rained  hard  for  two  days." 

There  it  was!  Money  came  to  you.  Federal 
Express  was  only  a  name  to  him;  he  had  written 
it  sometimes  at  Breede's  dictation.  But  his 
Aunt  Clara  was  old  enough  to  know  about  such 
things,  and  he  would  follow  her  advice,  though 
being  a  director  of  an  express  company  seemed 
as  unexciting  as  it  was  doubtless  respectable: 
what  he  had  at  times  been  wild  enough  to  dream 
was  that  he  should  be  the  principal  owner  of  a 
major-league  baseball  club,  and  travel  with  the 
club  —  see  every  game!  If  he  should,  tem 
porarily,  become  the  director  of  an  express  com 
pany,  he  would  have  it  plainly  understood  that 
he  might  resign  at  any  moment. 

Night  and  morning  he  surveyed  himself  in  the 
glass.  Not  in  the  way  of  ordinary  human  con 
ceit;  he  was  clear  sighted  enough  as  to  the  pulchri 
tude  of  his  present  encasement;  but  with  the 
eyes  of  the  young  who  see  visions.  Raptly 
scrutinizing  his  meagre  form  he  chanted  a  line 
of  verse  that  seemed  apposite: 

"Bnild  thou  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul!" 


H2  BUNKER  BEAN 

He  was  already  persuaded  that  his  next  in 
carnation  would  enrich  the  world  with  something 
far  more  stately  than  the  mansion  that  he  at 
present  occupied;  something  on  the  Gordon 
Dane  order,  he  suspected.  And  it  was  not  too 
soon  to  begin  laying  those  unseen  foundations 
—  to  think  the  thought  that  must  come  before 
the  thing.  He  was  veritably  a  king,  yet  for  a 
time  must  he  masquerade  as  a  wage-slave,  a 
serf  to  Breede,  and  an  inferior  of  Bulger's,  con 
sidered  as  a  mere  spectacle. 

He  began  to  word  long  conversations  with 
these  two;  noiseless  conversations,  be  it  under 
stood,  in  which  the  snappy  dialogue  went 
unuttered.  His  sarcasm  to  Bulger  in  the  mat 
ter  of  that  ten-dollar  loan  was  biting,  ruthless, 
witty,  invariably  leaving  the  debtor  in  direst 
confusion  with  nothing  to  retort.  Bean  always 
had  the  last  word,  both  with  Bulger  and  Breede, 
turning  from  them  with  easy  contempt. 

He  was  less  hard  on  Breede  than  on  Bulger, 
because  of  the  ball  game.  A  man  who  could 
behave  like  that  in  the  presence  of  baseball 
must  have  good  in  him.  Nevertheless,  in  this 
silent  way,  he  curtly  apprised  Breede  of  his  in 
tentions  about  working  beyond  stipulated  hours, 
and  when  Breede  was  rash  enough  to  adopt  a 
tone  of  bluster,  Bean  silenced  him  with  a  magnifi 
cent  "I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence!" 

He  carried  this  silent  warfare  into  public  con 
veyances  and  when  stout  aggressive  men  glared 
at  him  because  he  had  a  seat  he  quickly  and 


BUNKER  BEAN  113 

wittily  reduced  them  to  such  absurdity  in  the 
public  eye  that  they  had  to  flee  in  impotent  rage. 
The  once  modest  street  row  with  a  bully  twice 
his  size  was  enlarged  in  cast.  There  were  now, 
as  befitted  a  king,  two  bullies,  who  writhed  in 
pain,  each  with  a  broken  arm,  while  the  slight 
but  muscular  youth  with  a  knowledge  of  jiu-jitsu 
walked  coolly  off,  flecking  dust  from  one  of  his 
capable  shoulders.  Sometimes  he  paused  long 
enough  to  explain  the  affair,  in  a  few  dignified 
words,  to  an  admiring  policeman  who  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  this  stripling  had  van 
quished  two  such  powerful  brutes.  Sometimes 
another  act  was  staged  in  which  he  conferred  his 
card  upon  the  amazed  policeman  and  later  ex 
plained  the  finesse  of  his  science  to  him,  thereby 
winning  his  deathless  gratitude.  He  became 
quite  chummy  with  this  officer  and  was  never 
to  be  afraid  of  anything  any  more. 

He  glowed  from  this  new  exercise.  He  became 
more  witty,  more  masterful,  while  the  repartee 
of  his  adversaries  sank  to  wretched  pifHe.  He 
met  disaster  only  once.  That  was  when  his 
conscience  began  to  hurt  him  after  a  particularly 
bitter  assault  on  Bulger  in  which  the  latter  had 
been  more  than  usually  contemptible  in  the 
matter  of  the  overdue  debt.  He  felt  that  he  had 
really  been  too  hard  on  the  fellow.  And  Bulger, 
who  must  have  been  psychically  gifted  himself, 
came  over  from  his  typewriter  at  that  moment 
and  borrowed  an  additional  five  without  difficulty. 
In  later  justification,  Bean  reflected  that  he 


H4  BUNKER  BEAN 

would  almost  certainly  have  refused  this  second 
loan  had  it  not  been  for  his  softened  mood  of  the 
moment.  Still  he  was  glad  that,  with  his  in 
stinctive  secrecy  he  had  kept  from  Bulger  any 
knowledge  of  his  new  fortune.  With  Bulger 
aware  that  he  had  thousands  of  dollars  in  the  bank, 
something  told  him  that  distressing  complications 
would  have  ensued. 

He  debated  several  days  about  this  money. 
He  resolved,  at  length,  that  a  thousand  dollars 
should  be  devoted  to  the  worthy  purpose  of 
living  up  to  his  new  condition.  A  thousand 
dollars  would,  for  the  present,  give  him  an  ade 
quate  sensation  of  wealth.  Three  thousand  more 
must  be  paid  to  Professor  Balthasar  when  his 
secret  agents  brought  It  from  Its  long-hidden 
resting-place.  Suppose  the  professor  pleaded 
unexpected  outlays,  officials  not  too  easily  bribed 
or  something,  and  demanded  a  further  sum? 
At  once,  in  a  crowded  street,  he  brought  about  a 
heated  interview  with  the  professor,  in  which 
the  seer  was  told  that  a  bargain  was  a  bargain, 
and  that  if  he  had  thought  Bean  was  a  man  to 
stand  nonsense  of  any  sort  he  was  indeed  wildly 
mistaken.  Bean  was  going  to  hold  him  to  the 
exact  sum,  and  his  parting  sting  was  that  the  pro 
fessor  had  better  get  a  new  lot  of  controls  if  his 
old  ones  hadn't  been  able  to  tell  him  this.  After 
he  had  cooled  a  little  he  reflected  that  if  there 
were  really  any  small  sums  the  professor  would 
be  out  of  pocket,  he  would  of  course  not  be 
mean. 


BUNKER  BEAN  115 

This  left  him  four  thousand  dollars  with  which 
to  buy  his  way  into  the  directorate  of  that  express 
company,  as  suggested  by  Aunt  Clara.  He  had 
learned  a  great  deal  about  buying  stocks.  He 
knew  there  was  a  method  called  "buying  on  a 
margin"  which  was  greatly  superior  to  buying 
the  shares  outright:  you  received  a  great  many 
more  shares  for  a  given  sum.  Therefore  he  would 
buy  thus/  and  the  sooner  be  a  director.  He  liked 
to  think  of  that  position  in  his  moments  of  lesser 
exaltation.  He  recalled  his  child-self  sitting 
beside  his  father  on  the  seat  of  an  express  wagon. 
It  was  queer  how  life  turned  out  —  sometimes 
you  couldn't  get  away  from  a  thing.  Maybe  he 
would  always  be  a  director;  still  he  could  go 
into  baseball,  too. 

He  did  his  business  with  the  broker  without  a 
twinge  of  his  old  timidity.  Indeed,  he  was  rather 
bored  by  the  affair.  The  broker  took  his  money 
and  later  in  the  day  he  learned  that  he  controlled 
a  very  large  number  of  the  shares  of  the  Federal 
Express  Company.  He  forgot  how  many,  but 
he  knew  it  was  a  number  befitting  his  new  dignity. 
Having  done  this  much  he  thought  the  director 
ship  could  wait.  Let  them  come  to  him  if  they 
wanted  him.  He  had  other  affairs  on. 

There  was  the  new  dog. 

It  was  not  the  least  of  many  great  days  in  Bean's 
life,  that  golden  afternoon  when  he  sped  to  the 
bird-and-animal  store  and  paid  the  last  install 
ment  of  Napoleon's  ransom.  The  creature  greeted 
him  joyously  as  of  yore  through  the  wall  of  glass, 


ii6  BUNKER  BEAN 

frantically  essaying  to  lick  the  hand  that  was  so 
close  and  yet  so  unaccountably  withheld. 

The  money  passed,  and  one  dream,  at  least, 
had  been  made  to  come  true.  For  the  first  time 
he  was  in  actual  contact  with  the  wonderful 
animal. 

"He  knows  me,"  said  Bean,  as  the  dog  hurled 
itself  delightedly  upon  him.  "We've  been  friends 
a  long  time.  I  think  he  got  so  he  expected  me 
every  afternoon." 

Napoleon  barked  emphatically  in  confirmation 
of  this.  He  seemed  to  be  saying:  "Hurry! 
Let's  get  out  of  here  before  he  puts  me  back  in 
that  window!" 

The  old  man  confessed  that  he  would  miss 
the  little  fellow.  He  advised  Bean  to  call  him 
"Nap."  "Napoleon"  was  no  right  name  for  a 
dog  of  any  character. 

"You  know  what  that  fellow  been  if  he  been 
here  now,"  he  volunteered  at  parting.  "I  dell 
you,  you  bed  your  life!  He  been  a  gompanion 
unt  partner  in  full  with  that  great  American 
train-robber,  Chessie  Chames.  Sure  he  would. 
My  grantmutter  she  seen  him  like  she  could 
maybe  reach  out  a  finger  unt  touch  him!" 

"I'll  call  him  Nap,"  promised  Bean.  He  had 
ceased  to  feel  blamable  for  the  shortcomings  of 
Napoleon  I,  but  it  was  just  as  well  not  to  have 
the  name  used  too  freely. 

When  he  issued  to  the  street,  the  excited  dog 
on  a  leash,  he  was  prouder  than  most  kings  have 
ever  had  occasion  to  be. 


BUNKER  BEAN  117 

Now,  he  went  to  inspect  flats.  He  would  at 
last  have  "apartments,"  and  in  a  neighbourhood 
suitable  for  a  growing  dog.  He  bestowed  little 
attention  on  the  premises  submitted  to  his  view, 
occupying  himself  chiefly  with  observing  the 
effect  of  his  dog  on  the  various  janitors.  Some 
were  frankly  hostile;  some  covertly  so.  Some 
didn't  mind  dogs  —  but  there  was  rules.  And 
some  defeated  themselves  by  a  display  of  over- 
enthusiasm  that  manifestly  veiled  indifference,  or 
perhaps  downright  dislike. 

But  a  janitor  was  finally  encountered  who  met 
the  test.  In  ten  seconds  Bean  knew  that  Cassidy 
would  be  a  friend  to  any  dog.  He  did  not  fawn 
upon  the  animal  nor  explode  with  praise.  He 
merely  bestowed  a  glance  or  two  upon  the  dis 
tinguished  head,  and  later  rubbed  the  head  ex 
pertly  just  back  of  the  erect  ears;  this,  while  he 
exposed  to  Bean  the  circumstances  under  which 
one  steam-heated  apartment,  suitable  for  light 
housekeeping,  chanced  to  be  vacant.  The  parties, 
it  appeared,  was  givin'  a  Dutch  lunch  to  a  gang 
of  their  friends  at  5  A.  M.  of  a  morning,  and  that 
was  bad  enough  in  a  place  that  was  well  kep' 
up;  but  in  the  sicin'  place  they  got  scrappin', 
which  had  swiftly  resulted  in  an  ambulance  call 
for  the  host  and  lessee,  and  the  patrol  wagon  for 
his  friends  that  were  not  in  much  better  shape 
thimselves,  praise  Gawd.  But  the  place  was  all 
cleaned  up  again  and  would  be  a  jool  f'r  anny 
young  man  that  could  take  a  drink,  or  maybe  two, 
and  then  stop. 


ii8  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bean  knew  Cassidy  by  that  time,  and  his 
inspection  of  the  apartment  was  perfunctory. 
Cassidy  would  be  a  buckler  and  shield  to  the  dog, 
in  his  absence.  Cassidy  would  love  him.  The 
dog,  on  his  spread  forefeet,  touched  his  chest  to 
the  ground  and  with  ears  erect,  eyes  agleam,  and 
inciting  soprano  gurgles  invited  the  world  to  a 
mad,  mad,  game. 

Cassidy  only  said,  "Aw,  g'wan!  Would  you, 
now!"  But  each  word  was  a  caress.  And 
Cassidy  became  Bean's  janitor. 

He  moved  the  next  day,  bringing  his  effects 
in  a  cab.  The  cabman  professed  never  to  have 
seen  a  dog  as  "classy"  as  Nap,  and  voiced  the 
cheerful  prophecy  that  in  any  bench  show  he 
would  make  them  all  look  like  mutts.  He 
received  a  gratuity  of  fifty  cents  in  addition  to 
the  outrageous  fee  he  demanded  for  coming  so 
far  north,  although  he  had  the  appearance  of 
one  who  uses  liquor  to  excess,  and  could  probably 
not  have  qualified  as  a  judge  of  dogs. 

Bean's  installation,  under  the  guidance  of 
Cassidy,  was  effected  without  delay.  The  apart 
ment  proved  to  be  entirely  suitable  for  a  king 
in  abeyance.  There  was  a  bedroom,  a  parlour, 
an  alcove  off  the  latter  that  Cassidy  said  was  the 
libr'y  an'  a  good  place  fr  a  dawg  t'  sleep,  and 
beyond  this  was  a  feminine  diminutive  of  a 
kitchen,  pre'itily  called  a  "kitchenette." 

Bean  felt  like  an  insect  in  such  a  labyrinth  of 
a  place.  He  forgot  where  he  put  things,  and  then, 
overcome  by  the  vastness  and  number  of  rooms, 


BUNKER  BEAN  119 

forgot  what  he  was  looking  for,  losing  himself 
in  an  abstracted  and  fruitless  survey  of  the  walls. 
He  must  buy  things  to  hang  on  the  walls,  especially 
over  certain  stains  on  the  wall  of  the  parlour,  or 
throne-room,  to  which  in  the  heat  of  battle, 
doubtless,  certain  items  of  the  late  Dutch  lunch 
had  been  misdirected. 

But  he  knew  what  to  buy.  Etchings.  In  the 
magazine  stories  he  read,  aside  from  the  very 
rich  characters  who  had  galleries  of  old  masters, 
there  were  two  classes:  one  without  taste  that 
littered  its  rooms  with  expensive  but  ill-advised 
bric-a-brac;  and  one  that  wisely  contented  itself 
with  "a  few  good  etchings."  He  bought  a  few 
good  etchings  at  a  department  store  for  $1.97 
each,  and  felt  irreproachable.  And  when  he  had 
arranged  his  books  — •  about  Napoleon  I  and 
ancient  Egypt  —  he  was  ready  to  play  the  game 
of  living.  Mrs.  Cassidy  "did"  his  rooms,  and 
Cassidy  already  showed  the  devotion  of  an  old 
and  tried  retainer.  The  Cassidys  made  him 
feel  feudal. 

At  night,  while  Nap  fought  a  never-decided 
battle  with  a  sofa-pillow,  or  curled  asleep  on  the 
couch  with  a  half-inch  of  silly  pink  tongue  pro 
jecting  from  between  his  teeth,  he  read  of  Egypt, 
the  black  land,  where  had  been  the  first  great 
people  of  the  ancient  world.  He  devoured  the 
fruit  of  the  lotus,  the  tamarisk,  the  pomegranate, 
and  held  cats  to  be  sacred.  (Funny,  that  feeling 
he  had  always  had  about  cats  —  afraid  of  them 
even  in  childhood  —  it  had  survived  in  his  being!) 


120  BUNKER  BEAN 

There  he  had  lived  and  reigned  in  that  flat  valley 
of  the  Nile,  between  borders  of  low  mountains, 
until  his  name  had  been  put  down  in  the  book  of 
the  dead,  and  he  had  gone  for  a  time  to  the  hall  of 
Osiris. 

Or,  perhaps,  he  read  reports  of  psychical  societies, 
signed  by  men  with  any  number  of  capital  letters 
after  their  names:  cool-headed  scientists,  uni 
versity  professors,  psychologists,  grave  students 
all,  who  were  constantly  rinding  new  and  wonder 
ful  mediums,  and  achieving  communication  with 
the  disembodied.  He  could  tell  them  a  few 
things;  only,  of  course,  he  wouldn't  make  a 
fool  of  himself.  He  could  show  them  something, 
too,  when  the  secret  agents  of  Professor  Baltha- 
sar  came  bringing  It. 

Or  he  looked  into  the  opal  depths  of  his  shell, 
and  saw  visions  of  his  greatness  to  come,  while 
Nap,  unregarded,  wrenched  away  one  of  his 
slippers  and  pretended  to  find  it  something  alive 
and  formidable,  to  be  growled  at  and  shaken  and 
savagely  macerated. 


There  came,  on  a  certain  fair  morning,  a 
summons  from  Breede,  who  was  detained  at  his 
country  place  by  the  same  malady  that  Bulger 
had  once  so  crudely  diagnosed.  Bean  was  to 
bring  out  the  mail  and  do  his  work  there.  The 
car  waited  below. 

At   another  time   the    expedition    might    have 


BUNKER  BEAN  121 

attracted  him.  He  had  studied  pictures  of  that 
country  place  in  the  Sunday  papers.  Now  it 
meant  a  separation  from  his  dog,  who  was  already 
betraying  for  the  Cassidys  a  greater  fondness 
than  the  circumstances  justified;  and  it  meant 
an  absence  from  town  at  the  very  time  when  the 
secret  agents  might  happen  along  with  It.  Of 
course  he  could  refuse  to  go,  but  that  would  cost 
him  his  job,  and  he  was  not  yet  even  the  director 
of  an  express  company.  Dejectedly  he  prepared 
for  the  journey. 

"Better  take  some  things  along,"  suggested 
Tully,  who  had  conveyed  the  order  to  him.  "He 
may  keep  you  three  or  four  days." 

Bulger  followed  him  to  the  hall. 

"Look  out  for  Grandma,  the  Demon!"  warned 
Bulger.  "'F  I  was  the  old  man  I'd  slip  something 
in  her  tea." 

"Who  —  who  is  she?"  demanded  Bean. 

"Just  his  dear,  sweet  old  mother,  that's  all! 
Talk  you  to  death —  suifergette!  Oh!  say!" 

Reaching  the  street,  his  gloom  was  not  at  all 
lightened  by  the  discovery  of  the  flapper  in  the 
waiting  car.  She  gave  him  the  little  double- 
nod  and  regarded  him  with  that  peculiar  steely 
kindness  he  so  well  remembered.  It  was  un 
doubtedly  kind,  that  look,  yet  there  was  an  im 
placable  something  in  its  quality  that  dismayed 
him.  He  wondered  what  she  exactly  meant  by 
it. 

"Get  in,"  commanded  the  flapper,  and  Bean 
got  in. 


122  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Tell  him  where  to  go  for  your  things." 

.Bean  told  him. 

" I'm  glad  it's  on  our  way.  Pops  is  in  an  awful 
state.  He  swore  right  out  at  his  own  mother 
this  morning,  and  he  wants  you  there  in  a  hurry. 
Maybe  we'll  be  arrested  for  speeding." 

Bean  earnestly  hoped  they  would.  Pops  in 
health  was  ordeal  enough.  But  he  remained 
silent,  trusting  to  the  vigilance  of  an  excellent 
constabulary.  The  car  reached  the  steam-heated 
apartment  without  adventure,  however,  and  he 
quickly  secured  his  suit-case  and  consigned  the 
dog  for  an  uncertain  period  to  a  Cassidy,  who 
was  brazenly  taking  more  than  a  friendly  interest 
in  him.  Cassidy  talked  bluntly  of  how  "we" 
ought  to  feed  him,  as  if  he  were  already  a  part 
owner  of  the  animal. 

The  car  flew  on,  increasing  a  speed  that  had 
been  unlawful  almost  from  the  start.  He  won 
dered  what  the  police  were  about.  He  might 
write  a  sharp  letter  to  the  newspapers,  signed, 
"  Indignant  Pedestrian,"  only  it  would  be  too 
late.  He  was  being  volleyed  at  the  rate  of  thirty- 
five  miles  an  hour  into  the  presence  of  a  man  who 
had  that  morning  sworn  at  his  mother.  He 
wished  he  could,  say  for  one  day,  have  Breede 
back  there  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  —  set  him 
to  work  building  a  pyramid,  or  weeding  the  lotus 
patch,  foot  or  no  foot!  He'd  show  him! 

He  switched  this  resentment  to  the  young 
female  at  his  side.  He  wanted  her  to  quit  look 
ing  at  him  that  way.  It  made  him  nervous. 


BUNKER  BEAN  123 

But  a  muffled  glance  or  two  at  her  disarmed  this 
feeling.  She  was  all  right  to  look  at,  he  thought, 
had  pretty  hands  and  "all  that"  —  she  had 
stripped  off  her  gloves  when  they  reached  the 
open  country  —  and  she  didn't  talk,  which  was 
what  he  most  feared  in  her  sex.  He  recalled 
that  she  had  said  hardly  a  word  since  the  start. 
He  might  have  supposed  himself  forgotten  had 
it  not  been  for  that  look  of  veiled  determination 
which  he  encountered  as  often  as  he  dared. 

A  young  dog  dashed  from  a  gateway  ahead  of 
them  and  threatened  the  car  furiously.  They 
both  applied  imaginary  brakes  to  the  car  with 
feet  and  hands  and  taut  nerves.  The  puppy 
escaping  death  by  an  inch,  trotted  back  to  his 
saved  home  with  an  air  that  comes  from  duty 
well  performed.  They  looked  from  the  dog  to 
each  other. 

"I'd  make  them  against  the  law,"  said  Bean. 

"How  could  you?     The  idea!" 

"I  mean  motors,  not  dogs." 

"Oh!    Of  course!" 

They  had  been  brought  a  little  together. 

"You  go  in  for  dogs?"  asked  the  flapper. 

He  hesitated.  "Going  in"  for  dogs  seemed  to 
mean  more.  "I've  got  only  one  just  now,"  he 
confessed. 

Wooded  hills  flew  by  them,  the  white  road 
flickered  forward  to  their  wheels. 

"You  interested  in  the  movement?"  demanded 
the  flapper  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 


124  BUNKER  BEAN 

"  Granny  will  be  delighted  to  know  that.  So 
many  young  men  aren't." 

"What  make  is  it?"  he  inquired,  preparing 
to  look  enlightened  when  told  the  name  of  the 
vehicle  in  which  they  rode. 

"Oh,  I  mean  the  Movement  —  the  movement  1" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  faltered.  "Greatly  interested!" 
He  remembered  the  badge  on  her  jacket,  and 
Bulger's  warning  about  Grandma,  the  Demon. 

"Granny  and  I  marched  in  the  parade  this 
year,  clear  down  to  Washington  Square.  If 
she  wasn't  so  old  we'd  both  run  over  to  London 
and  get  arrested  in  the  Strand  for  breaking 
windows." 

Bean  shuddered. 

"We're  making  our  flag  now  for  the  next 
parade  —  big  blue  cloth  with  a  gold  star  for  every 
state  that  has  raised  woman  from  her  degrada 
tion  by  giving  her  a  vote." 

He  shuddered  again.  Although  of  legal  years 
for  the  franchise,  he  had  never  voted.  If  you 
tried  to  vote  some  ward-heeler  would  challenge 
you  and  you'd  like  as  not  be  hauled  off  to  the 
lock-up.  And  what  was  the  good  of  it!  The 
politicians  got  what  they  wanted.  But  this  he 
kept  to  himself. 

"Granny '11  put  a  badge  on  you,"  promised  the 
flapper.  "We  have  to  take  advantage  of  every 
little  means." 

He  was  still  puzzling  over  this  when  they 
turned  through  a  gateway,  imposing  with  its 
tangle  of  wrought  iron  and  gilt,  and  at  a  decor- 


'Daughter!"  said  Breede,  with  half  a  glance  at  the  flapper 


BUNKER  BEAN  125 

ously  reduced  speed  crinkled  up  a  wide  drive  to 
the  vast  pile  of  gray  stone  that  housed  the  un- 
filial  Breede. 

A  taller  and,  Bean  thought,  a  prettier  girl 
than  the  flapper  stepped  aside  for  them,  looking 
at  Bean  as  they  passed.  One  could  read  her 
look  as  one  could  not  read  the  flapper's.  It  was 
outrageously  languishing. 

"Flirts  with  every  one,  makes  no  difference 
who!79  explained  the  flapper  with  a  venomous 
sniff. 

Bean  laughed  uneasily. 

"She's  my  own  dear  sister,  and  I  love  her,  but 
she's  a  perfect  cat!" 

Bean  made  deprecating  sounds  with  his  lips. 

"I  suppose  people  have  been  wondering  where 
I  was,"  confessed  the  flapper  as  they  descended 
upon  the  granite  steps.  "I  forgot  to  tell  them 
I  was  going.  Better  hurry  to  Pops  or  he'll  be 
murdering  some  one." 

A  man  took  his  bag  and  preceded  him  into  the 
big  hall. 

"Engaged,  too!"  called  the  flapper  bitterly. 

He  found  Breede  imprisoned  in  a  large,  light 
room  that  looked  to  the  west.  Below  the  win 
dows  a  green  hill  fell  sheerly  away  to  the  bank 
of  a  lordly  river,  and  beyond  rose  other  hills  that 
shimmered  in  the  haze.  A  light  breeze  fluttered 
the  gayly  striped  awnings.  Breede,  at  a  desk, 
turned  his  back  upon  the  fair  scene  and  fumed. 

"Take  letter  G.  M.  Watkins,  Pres'den  I  V 
N.  C.  Rai'way."  began  Breede  as  Bean  entered 


126  BUNKER  BEAN 

the  room.  "Dear  sir  repline  yours  of  23d  instan' 
would  say  Ouch!  damn  that  foot  don't  take  that 
regardin'  traffic  'greement  now'n  'feet  that  'ca- 
sion  may  rise  'n  near  future  to  'mend  same  in 
'cordance  with  stip'lations  inform'ly  made  at 
conference  held  las'  Jan  wary  will  not'fy  you  'n 
due  time  'f  change  is  made  yours  very  truly 
have  some  lunch  brought  here  'n  a  minute  may 
haf  t'  stay  three  four  days  t'll  this  Whoo!  damn 
foot  gets  well  take  letter  H.  J.  Hobbs  secon' 
'sistant  vice  Pres'den'  D.  'n'  L.  S.  Rai'way  New 
York,  New  York,  dear  Hobbs  mark  it  pers'nal 
repline  yours  even  date  stock  purchases  goin' 
forward  as  rapidly  's  thought  wise  under  cir 
cumstances  it  is  held  mos'ly  'n  small  lots  an' 
too  active  a  market  might  give  rise  t'  silly  notions 

about   it " 

The  day's  work  was  on,  familiar  enough,  with 
the  exception  of  Breede's  interjections;  he  spoke 
words  many  times  that  were  not  to  be  "taken 
down."  And  yet  Bean  forebore  to  record  his 
wonted  criticisms  of  his  employer's  dress.  There 
was  ground  for  them.  Breede  had  never  looked 
less  the  advanced  dresser.  But  Bean's  mind 
was  busy  with  that  older  sister,  she  of  the  marvel 
lously  drooping  eyes.  He  had  recognized  her  at 
once  as  the  ideal  person  with  whom  to  be  wrecked 
on  a  desert  island.  A  flirt,  and  engaged,  too, 
was  she?  No  matter.  He  wrecked  himself  with 
her,  and  they  lived  on  mussels  and  edible  roots 
and  berries,  and  some  canned  stuff  from  the  ship, 
and  he  built  a  hut  of  "native  thatch,"  and  found 


BUNKER  BEAN  127 

a  deposit  of  rubies,  gathering  bushels  of  them, 
and  he  became  her  affianced  the  very  day  the 
smoke  of  the  rescuing  steamer  blackened  the  hori 
zon.  And  throughout  an  idyllic  union  they  always 
thought  rather  regretfully  of  that  island;  they 
had  had  such  a  beautiful  time  there.  And  his 
oldest  son,  who  was  left-handed,  pitched  a  ball 
that  was  the  despair  of  every  batter  in  both 
leagues! 

Such  had  been  the  devastation  of  that  one 
drooping  glance.  This  vision,  enjoyed  while  he 
ate  of  the  luncheon  brought  to  him,  might  have 
been  prolonged.  He  hadn't  remembered  a 
quarter  of  the  delightful  contingencies  that  arise 
when  the  right  man  and  woman  are  wrecked  on 
an  island,  but  he  looked  up  from  his  plate  to 
find  Breede  regarding  him  and  his  abundant 
food  with  a  look  of  such  stony  malignance  that 
he  could  eat  no  more  —  Breede  with  his  glass  of 
diluted  milk  and  one  intensely  hygienic  cracker! 

But  during  pauses  in  the  afternoon's  work  the 
island  vision  became  blurred  by  the  singular 
energies  of  the  flapper.  What  did  she  mean  by 
looking  at  him  that  way?  There  was  something 
ominous  about  it.  He  had  to  admit  that  in  some 
occult  way  she  benumbed  his  will  power.  He 
did  not  believe  he  would  dare  be  wrecked  on  a 
desert  island  with  the  other  one,  if  the  flapper 
knew  about  it. 

At  last  there  was  surcease  of  Breede. 

"Have  'em  ready  in  the  morning,"  he  directed, 
referring  to  the  letters  he  had  dictated.  "G'wout 


128  BUNKER  BEAN 

V  'muse  yourself  when  you  get  time,"  he  added 
hospitably.  "Now  I  got  to  hobble  to  my  room. 
If  you  see  any  women  outside,  tell  'em  g'wan  down 
stairs  if  they  don't  want  to  hear  me." 

He  stood  balanced  on  one  foot,  a  stout  cane 
in  either  hand.  Bean  opened  the  door,  but  the 
hall  was  vacant.  Breede  grunted  and  began  his 
progress.  It  was,  perhaps,  not  more  than  reason 
ably  vocal  considering  his  provocation. 

Bean  uncovered  a  typewriter  and  sat  to  it, 
his  note-book  before  him.  For  a  moment  he 
reverted  to  the  island  vision.  They  could  be 
attacked  by  savages  from  another  island,  and  he 
would  fight  them  off  with  the  rifles  he  had  sal 
vaged  from  the  ship.  She  would  reload  the 
weapons  for  him,  and  bind  up  his  head  when  he 
was  wounded.  He  fought  the  last  half  of  the 
desperate  battle  with  a  stained  bandage  over  his 
brow. 

There  was  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door  and  it  opened 
before  he  could  call.  The  flapper  entered. 

"Don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  she  said,  and 
walked  to  the  window,  as  if  she  found  the  place 
only  scenically  interesting. 

Bean  murmured  politely  and  began  upon  his 
letters.  The  flapper  was  relentless.  She  sat 
in  her  father's  chair  and  fastened  the  old  look  of 
implacable  kindness  upon  him.  He  beat  the 
keys  of  the  machine.  The  flapper  was  disturb 
ing  him  atrociously. 

A  few  moments  later  another  rap  sounded  on 
the  door,  and  again  it  opened  before  he  could  call. 


BUNKER  BEAN  129 

A  shrewd-looking,  rather  trim  old  lady  with  care 
fully  coiffed  hair  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  she  said,  and  again 
Bean  murmured. 

"Mr.  Bean,  my  grandmother,"  said  the  flapper. 

"Keep  right  on  with  your  work,  young  man," 
said  the  old  lady  in  commanding  tones,  when 
Bean  had  acknowledged  the  presentation.  "I 
like  to  watch  it." 

She  sat  in  another  chair,  very  straight  in  her 
lavender  dress,  and  joined  with  the  flapper  in 
her  survey  of  the  wage-slave.  This  was  un 
doubtedly  Grandma,  the  Demon. 

Bean  continued  his  work,  thinking  as  best  he 
could  above  the  words  of  Breede,  that  she  must 
be  a  pretty  raw  old  party,  going  around,  voting, 
smashing  windows,  leading  her  innocent  young 
grandchild  into  the  same  reckless  life.  Nice 
thing,  that!  He  was  not  surprised  when  he 
heard  a  match  lighted  a  moment  later,  and  knew 
that  Grandma  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  Expect 
anything  of  that  sort! 

He  had  wished  they  would  go  before  he  finished 
the  last  letter,  but  they  sat  on,  and  Grandma 
filled  the  room  with  smoke. 

"Now  he's  through!"  proclaimed  the  flapper. 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  Grandma,  as  Bean 
arose  nervously  from  the  machine. 

He  tried  jauntily  to  make  it  appear  that  he 
must  "count  up." 

"Let  me  see.  Pm  —  twenty-three  last  Tues 
day." 


i3o  BUNKER  BEAN 

The  old  lady  nodded  approvingly,  as  if  this 
were  something  to  his  credit. 

"Got  any  vicious  habits?" 

Bean  weakly  began  an  answer  intended  to  be 
facetious,  and  yet  leave  much  to  be  inferred  re 
garding  his  habits.  But  the  Demon  would  have 
none  of  this. 

"Smoke?" 

"No!" 

"Drink?" 

"No!"  He  desperately  wondered  if  she  would 
know  where  to  stop. 

"How's  your  health?     Ever  been  sick  much?" 

"I  can't  remember.  I  had  lumbago  when  I 
was  seven." 

"Humph!  Gamble,  play  cards,  bet  on  races, 
go  around  raising  cain  with  a  lot  of  young  devils 
at  night?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Bean,  with  a  hint  of  sullen 
defiance.  He  wanted  to  add:  "And  I  don't 
go  round  voting  and  breaking  windows,  either," 
but  he  was  not  equal  to  this. 

"Well,  I  don't  know "  She  deliberated, 

adjusting  one  of  her  many  puffs  of  gray  hair,  and 
gazing  dreamily  at  a  thread  of  smoke  that  as 
cended  from  her  cigarette.  She  seemed  to  be 
wondering  whether  or  not  she  ought  to  let  him 
off  this  time.  "Well,  I  don't  know.  It  looks 
to  me  as  if  you  were  too  good  to  be  true." 

She  rose  and  tossed  her  cigarette  out  of  the 
window.  He  thought  he  was  freed,  but  at  the 
door  she  turned  suddenly  upon  him  once  more. 


BUNKER  BEAN  131 

"What  in  time  have  you  done?  Haven't  you 
ever  had  any  fun?" 

But  she  waited  for  no  answer. 

"I  knew  she'd  admire  you,"  said  the  flapper. 
"Isn't  she  a  perfectly  old  dear?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  gasped  Bean.  "Yes,  yes,  yes, 
indeed!  She  is  that!" 


VII 

BEAN   had  once  attended  a  magician's  en 
tertainment  and  there  suffered  vicariously 
the  agony  endured  by  one  of  his  volunteer 
assistants.     Suavely  the  entertainer  begged    the 
help  of  "some  kind  gentleman  from  the  audience." 
He  was  insistent,  exerting  upon  the  reluctant  ones 
the  pressure  of  his  best  platform  manner. 

When  the  pause  had  grown  embarrassing,  a 
shamed  looking  man  slouched  forward  from  an 
aisle  seat  amid  hearty  cheers.  He  ascended  the 
carpeted  runway  from  aisle  to  stage,  stumbled 
over  footlights  and  dropped  his  hat.  Then  the 
magician  harried  him  to  the  malicious  glee  of  the 
audience.  He  removed  playing-cards,  white  rab 
bits  and  articles  of  feminine  apparel  from  beneath 
the  coat  of  his  victim.  He  seated  him  in  a  chair 
that  collapsed.  He  gave  him  a  box  to  hold  and 
shocked  him  electrically.  He  missed  his  watch 
and  discovered  it  in  the  abused  man's  pocket. 
And  when  the  ordeal  was  over  the  recovered  hat 
was  found  to  contain  guinea-pigs.  The  kind 
gentleman  from  the  audience  had  been  shown  to 
be  transcendently  awkward,  brainless,  and  to  have 
a  mania  for  petty  thievery.  With  burning  face 
and  falling  glance,  he  had  stumbled  back  to  his 
seat,  where  a  lady  who  had  before  exhibited  the 

132 


BUNKER  BEAN  133 

public  manner  of  wife  to  husband  toward  him,  now 
pretended  that  he  was  an  utter  and  offensive 
stranger. 

Bean,  I  say,  had  once  suffered  vicariously  with 
this  altruistic  dolt.  His  suffering  now  was  not 
vicarious.  For  three  days  he  endured  on  the  raw 
of  his  own  soul  tortures  even  more  ingeniously 
harrowing. 

To  be  shut  up  for  three  hours  a  day  with  Breede 
was  bad  enough,  but  custom  had  a  little  dulled 
his  sensitiveness  to  this.  And  he  could  look 
Breede  over  and  write  down  in  beautiful  shorthand 
what  he  thought  of  him. 

But  the  other  Breedes! 

Mrs.  Breede,  a  member  of  one  of  the  very  oldest 
families  in  Omaha,  he  learned,  terrified  him 
exceedingly.  She  was  an  advanced  dresser  —  he 
had  to  admit  that  —  but  she  was  no  longer 
beautiful.  She  was  a  plucked  rose  that  had  been 
too  long  kept;  the  petals  were  rusting,  crumpling 
at  the  edges.  He  wondered  if  Breede  had  ever 
wished  to  be  wrecked  on  a  desert  island  with  her. 
She  surveyed  Bean  through  a  glass-and-gold 
weapon  with  a  long  handle,  and  on  the  two 
subsequent  occasions  when  she  addressed  him 
called  him  Mr.  Brown.  Once  meeting  him  in  the 
hall,  she  seemed  to  believe  that  he  had  been  sent 
to  fix  the  telephone. 

And  the  flapper's  taller  sister  of  the  languishing 
glance  —  how  quickly  had  she  awakened  him  from 
that  golden  dream  of  the  low-lying  atoll  and  the 
wrecked  ship  in  a  far  sea.  She  did  flirt  with 


i34  BUNKER  BEAN 

"any  one,"  no  doubt  about  that.  She  adroitly 
revealed  to  Bean  an  unshakable  conviction  that 
he  was  desperately  enamoured  of  her,  and  that  it 
served  him  right  for  a  presumptuous  nobody. 
She  talked  to  him,  preened  herself  in  his  gaze, 
and  maddened  him  with  a  manner  of  deadly 
roguishness.  Then  she  flew  to  exert  the  same 
charm  upon  any  one  of  the  resplendent  young  men 
who  were  constantly  riding  over  or  tooting  over  in 
big  black  motor-cars.  They  were  young  men  who 
apparently  had  nothing  to  do  but  "go  in"  for 
things  — •  riding,  tennis,  polo,  golf.  To  all  of  them 
she  was  the  self-confident  charmer;  just  the  kind 
of  a  girl  to  make  a  fool  of  you  and  tell  about  it. 

Twenty-four  hours  after  her  first  assault  upon 
him  he  was  still  wrecking  the  ship  at  the  entrance 
to  that  lagoon,  but  now  he  watched  the  big  sister 
go  down  for  the  third  time  while  he  placidly 
rescued  a  stoker  to  share  his  romantic  isolation. 

The  flapper  and  Grandma,  the  Demon,  were 
even  more  objectionable,  and,  what  was  worse, 
they  alarmed  him.  Puzzled  as  to  their  purpose, 
he  knew  not  what  defence  to  make.  He  was 
swept  on  some  secret  and  sinister  current  to  an 
end  he  could  not  divine. 

The  flapper  lay  in  wait  for  him  at  all  hours  when 
he  might  appear.  Did  he  open  a  door,  she  lurked 
in  the  corridor;  did  he  seek  refuge  in  the  gloom  of 
the  library,  she  arose  to  confront  him  from  its 
dimmest  nook;  did  he  plan  a  masterly  escape  by 
a  rear  stairway,  she  burst  upon  him  from  the 
ambush  of  some  exotic  shrub  to  demand  which  way 


BUNKER  BEAN  135 

he  had  thought  of  going.  He  had  never  thought 
of  a  way  that  did  not  prove  to  have  been  her  own. 
The  creature  was  a  leech!  If  she  had  only  talked, 
he  believed  that  he  could  have  thrown  her  off. 
But  she  would  not  talk.  She  merely  walked 
beside  him  insatiably.  Sometimes  he  thought  he 
could  detect  a  faint  anxiety  in  the  look  she  kept 
upon  him,  but,  mostly,  it  was  the  look  of  something 
calm,  secure,  ruthless.  Something!  It  unnerved 
him. 

It  was  usually  probable  that  Grandma,  the 
Demon,  would  join  them,  the  silver  cigarette  case 
dangling  at  her  girdle.  Then  was  he  sorely  beset. 
They  would  perhaps  talk  about  him  over  his  head, 
discuss  his  points  as  if  he  were  some  new  beast 
from  the  stables. 

"I  tell  you,  he's  over  an  inch  taller  than  I  am," 
announced  the  flapper. 

"U-u-mm!"  replied  Grandma,  measuring  Bean's 
stature  with  narrowed  eye.  "U-u-mm!" 

"You  show  her!"  commanded  flapper,  in  a 
louder  voice,  as  if  she  believed  him  deaf.  She 
grasped  his  arm  and  whirled  him  about  to  stand 
with  his  back  to  hers. 

"There!"  said  the  flapper  tensely,  her  eyes 
staring  ahead.  "There!" 

"You're  scrooching!"  accused  the  Demon. 

"Not  a  bit!  —  and  see  how  square  his  shoulders 
are!"  She  turned  to  point  out  this  grace  of  the 
animal. 

"Ever  take  any  drugs?  Ever  get  any  habits 
like  that?"  queried  the  Demon.  Plainly  Bean's 


136  BUNKER  BEAN 

confession  to  an  unusual  virtue  had  aroused  her 
suspicion.  He  might  be  a  drug  fiend! 

He  faltered  wretchedly,  wishing  Breede  would 
send  for  him. 

"I  —  well,  I  used  to  be  made  to  take  sulphur 
and  molasses  every  spring  .  .  .  but  I  never 
kept  it  up  after  I  left  home." 

"Hum!"  said  the  old  lady,  looking  as  if  he 
could  tell  a  lot  more  if  he  chose. 

She  gripped  one  of  his  biceps.  He  was  not 
ashamed  of  these.  The  night  and  morning  drill 
with  that  home  exerciser  had  told,  even  though  he 
was  not  yet  so  impressive  as  the  machine's  in 
ventor,  who,  in  magazine  advertisements,  looked 
down  so  fondly  upon  his  own  flexed  arm. 

"For  goodness'  sake!"  exclaimed  the  Demon 
respectfully. 

Bean  thrilled  at  this,  feeling  like  a  primitive 
brute  of  the  cave  times,  accustomed  to  subduing 
women  by  force. 

After  that  they  seemed  tacitly  to  agree  that 
they  would  pretend  to  show  him  over  the 
"grounds."  Bean  hated  the  grounds,  which  were 
worried  to  the  last  square  inch  into  a  chilling 
formality,  and  the  big  glass  conservatory  was 
stifling,  like  an  overcrowded,  overheated  audi 
torium.  And  he  knew  they  were  "drawing  him 
out."  They  looked  meaningly  at  each  other  when 
ever  he  spoke. 

They  questioned  him  about  his  early  life,  but 
learned  only  that  his  father  had  been  "engaged 
in  the  express  business."  He  was  ably  reticent. 


BUNKER  BEAN  137 

Did  he  believe  that  women  ought  to  be  classed 
legally  with  drunkards,  imbeciles  and  criminals? 
He  did  not,  if  you  came  down  to  that.  Let  them 
vote  if  they  wanted  to.  He  had  other  things  to 
think  about,  more  important.  He  didn't  care 
much,  either  way.  Voting  didn't  do  any  good. 

He  had  taken  the  ideal  attitude  to  enrage  the 
woman  suffragist.  She  will  respect  opposition. 
Careless  indifference  she  cannot  brook.  Grand 
ma  opened  upon  him  and  battered  him  to  a  pulpy 
mass.  Within  the  half  hour  he  was  supinely 
promising  to  remind  her  to  give  him  a  badge 
before  he  left;  and  there  was  further  talk  of  his 
marching  at  the  next  parade  as  a  member  of  the 
Men's  League  for  Woman's  Suffrage,  or,  at  the 
very  least,  in  the  column  of  Men  Sympathizers. 

He  wondered,  wondered!  Were  they  trying 
to  assure  themselves  that  he  was  a  fit  man  to  be  in 
the  employ  of  old  Breede?  He  could  imagine  it 
of  them;  as  soon  as  they  thought  about  voting 
they  began  to  interfere  in  a  man's  business. 
Yet  this  suspicion  slept  when  he  was  with  the 
flapper  alone.  Sometimes  he  was  conscious  of 
liking  very  much  to  be  with  her.  He  decided 
that  this  was  because  she  didn't  talk. 

The  evening  of  his  last  day  came.  Breede, 
in  a  burst  of  garrulity,  had  said:  "Had  enough 
this;  go  town  to-morrow!"  The  flapper,  and 
even  the  Demon,  had  seemed  to  be  stirred  by  the 
announcement.  He  resolved  to  be  more  than 
ever  on  1iis  guard.  But  they  caught  him  fairly 
in  the  open. 


138  BUNKER  BEAN 

"How  do  you  like  his  hair  parted  that  way 
in  the  middle?"  demanded  the  flapper,  with  the 
calculating  eye  of  one  who  ponders  changes  in  a 
dwelling-house. 

"U-u-mm!"  considered  the  Demon  gravely. 
"Not  bad.  Still,  perhaps !  " 

"Exactly  what  I  was  thinking!"  said  the  flap 
per  cordially.  Then,  to  Bean,  her  tone  slightly 
raised: 

"Which  way?" 

"Got  to  get  off  a  bunch  of  telegrams,"  lied 
Bean. 

"Oh,  all  right!  We'll  wait  for  you,"  said  the 
flapper.  "Right  there,"  she  added,  pointing  to 
the  most  expensive  pergola  on  the  place. 

In  the  dusk  of  an  hour  later  he  slunk  stealthily 
down  a  rear  stairway  and  made  a  cautious  detour 
into  the  grounds.  He  earnestly  meant  to  keep 
far  from  that  pergola.  Wait  for  him,  would  they? 
Well,  he'd  show  them!  Always  spying  on  a  man; 
hounding  him!  What  business  was  it  of  theirs 
whether  he  had  habits  or  not  .  .  .  any  kind 
of  habits  ? 

But  he  was  to  find  himself  under  a  spell  such  as 
is  said  to  bring  the  weak-willed  bird  to  the  ser 
pent's  maw.  His  traitorous  feet  dragged  him 
toward  the  trap.  The  odour  of  a  cigarette  drew 
his  revolted  nostrils.  He  could  hear  the  mur 
murous  duet. 

Talking  about  him!  Of  course!  He  would 
like  to  break  in  on  them  and  for  a  little  while  be 
a  certain  Corsican  upstart  in  one  of  his  most 


BUNKER  BEAN  139 

objectionable  moods.  That  would  take  them 
down  a  bit.  But,  instead,  he  became  something 
entirely  different.  With  the  stealth  of  the  red 
Indian  he  effaced  himself  against  a  background 
of  well-groomed  shrubbery  and  crept  toward  the 
murmur.  At  last  he  could  hear  words  above  the 
beating  of  his  heart. 

"How  can  you  know?"  the  Demon  was  saying. 
"A  child  of  your  age?" 

The  flapper's  tone  was  calm  and  confident  as 
one  who  relates  a  phenomenon  that  has  become 
a  commonplace. 

"I  knew  it  the  very  first  second  I  ever  saw  him 
—  something  went  over  me  just  like  that  — •  I  can't 
tell  how,  but  I  knew. " 

"Well,  how  can  you  know  about  him?" 

"Oh,  him!"  The  words  implied  that  the 
flapper  had  waved  a  deprecating  hand.  "Why, 
I  know  about  him  in  just  the  same  way;  you  can't 
tell  how.  It  comes  over  you!" 

The  Demon:     (A  long-drawn)  "U-u-mm!" 

The  flapper:  "And  he  makes  me  perfectly 
furious  sometimes,  too!" 

There  was  a  stir  as  if  they  were  leaving.  Bean 
retreated  a  dozen  feet  before  he  breathed  again. 
So  that  was  their  game,  was  it?  He'd  see  about 
that! 

He  waited  for  them  to  emerge,  but  they  had 
apparently  settled  to  more  of  this  high-handed 
talk.  Then,  like  an  icy  wave  to  engulf  him, 
came  a  name  —  "Tommy  Hollins."  It  came 
in  the  Demon's  voice,  indistinguishable  words 


I4o  BUNKER  BEAN 

preceding  it.  And  in  the  flapper's  voice  came 
"Tommy  Hollins!"  gently,  caressingly,  it  seemed. 
In  truth,  the  flapper  had  sniffed  before  uttering 
it,  and  the  sniff  had  meant  good-natured  contempt 
but  Bean  had  lost  the  sniff. 

Now  he  had  it!  Tommy  Hollins!  He  identi 
fied  the  youth,  a  yellow-headed,  pink-faced  lout 
in  flannels  who  was  always  riding  over,  and  who 
seemed  to  "go  in'7  for  nearly  everything.  He  had 
detected  a  romping  intimacy  between  the  two. 
So  it  was  Tommy  Hollins.  At  once  he  felt  a  great 
relief;  he  need  worry  no  longer  over  the  singular 
attentions  of  this  young  woman.  Let  Tommy 
Hollins  worry!  He  could  admit,  now,  how  grave 
had  been  his  alarm.  And  there  was  nothing  in  it. 
He  could  meet  her  without  being  afraid.  He  was 
almost  ready  to  approach  them  genially  and  pass 
an  hour  in  light  conversation.  He  advanced 
a  few  steps  with  this  intention,  but  again  came  the 
voice  of  the  flapper  replying,  apparently,  to  some 
unheard  admonition.  It  came,  cold  and  terrible. 

"I  don't  care.  I've  got  the  right  to  choose  the 
father  of  my  own  children!" 

He  blushed  for  this  language,  a  blush  he  could 
feel  mantling  his  very  toes.  He  fled  from  there. 
He  saw  that  the  moment  was  not  for  light  con 
versation.  And  even  as  he  fled  he  caught  the 
Demon's  prolonged  "U-u-mmm!" 

Yet  when  he  left  in  the  morning  the  flapper 
lurked  for  him  as  ever,  materializing  from  an 
apparently  vacant  corridor.  He  greeted  her  for 
the  first  time  without  ulterior  questioning.  He 


BUNKER  BEAN  141 

thought  he  liked  her  pretty  well  now.  And  she 
was  undeniably  good  to  look  at  in  the  white  of  her 
tennis  costume;  the  hair,  like  Nap's  spots  in  its 
golden  brown,  was  filleted  with  a  scarlet  ribbon, 
and  her  eyes  shone  from  her  freshened  face  with  an 
unwonted  sparkle  —  decision,  certitude  —  what 
was  it?  He  deemed  that  he  knew. 

"Tommy  Hollins  coming  to  play,"  she  vouch 
safed  in  explanation  of  the  racquet  she  carried. 
"Are  you  glad  to  go?" 

"Glad  to  see  my  dog  again."  He  smiled  as 
a  man  of  the  world.  He  was  on  the  verge  of 
coquetry,  now  that  he  knew  it  to  be  safe. 

"We'll  bring  him  along  too,  next  time." 

"Oh,  the  next  time!"  He  put  it  carelessly 
aside. 

"You'll  be  out  again,  soon  enough.  I  simply 
know  Pops  is  going  to  have  another  bad  spell  — • 
in  a  week  or  so." 

He  could  have  sworn  that  the  eyes  of  Breede's 
daughter  gleamed  with  cold  anticipatory  malice. 
He  shuddered  for  Breede.  And  he  wished  Tommy 
Hollins  well  of  his  bargain.  Flirt,  indeed!  All 
alike! 

"Chubbins!"  called  the  unconscious  father  from 
afar. 

"Yes,  Pops!"  She  gripped  his  hand  with  a 
well-muscled  fervour.  "Oh,  he'll  have  another 
in  a  little  while,  don't  you  worry!"  And  she  was 
off,  with  this  evil  in  her  heart,  to  a  father  but  now 
convalescent. 

Marvelling,   he    walked    on    to    the    Demon's 


I42  BUNKER  BEAN 

ambuscade.     She  pounced  upon  him  from  behind 
a  half-opened  door. 

"I  want  to  say  one  word,  young  man.  Oh,  you 
needn't  think  I  don't  see  the  way  things  are  going. 
I'm  not  blind  if  I  am  seventy-six!  If  you're  the 
tender  and  innocent  thing  you  say  you  are,  you 
look  out  for  yourself.  I  know  you  all!  If  you 
don't  break  out  one  time  you  do  another.  I'd  a 
good  deal  rather  you'd  had  it  over  before  now  and 
put  it  all  behind  you  —  don't  interrupt  —  but 
you're  sound  and  clean  as  far  as  I  can  see,  and 
you've  got  a  good  situation.  I  don't  say  it 
couldn't  be  worse.  But  if  you  are  —  well,  you  see 
that  you  stay  that  way.  Don't  try  to  tell  me. 
I've  seen  enough  of  men  in  my  time " 

He  broke  away  from  her  at  Breede's  call.  The 
flapper  jerked  her  head  twice  at  him,  very  neatly, 
as  the  car  passed  the  tennis  court.  She  was 
beginning  a  practise  volley  with  Tommy  Hollins, 
who  was  disporting  himself  like  a  young  colt. 

"Chubbins!"  he  thought.  Not  a  bad  name 
for  her,  though  it  had  come  queerly  from  Breede. 
For  the  first  time  he  was  pricked  with  the  needle  of 
suspicion  that  Hollins  might  not  be  the  right  man 
for  the  flapper.  Hearing  her  called  " Chubbins" 
somehow  made  it  seem  different.  Maybe  Hollins, 
who  seemed  all  of  twenty,  wouldn't  "make  her 
happy."  He  thought  it  was  something  that  the 
family  ought  to  consider  very  seriously.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  willingness  to  consider  it  himself,  as 
a  friend  of  the  family  and  a  well-wisher  of  Chubbins. 


BUNKER  BEAN  143 

He  was  back  in  the  apartment  and  in  the 
presence  of  a  document  that  swept  his  mind  of  all 
Breedes.  Never  had  he  in  fancy  ceased  to  be  king 
Ram-tah,  cheated  of  historic  mention  because 
of  his  wisdom  and  goodness.  He  had  looked 
commiseratingly  upon  Breede's  country-house, 
thinking  of  his  own  palace  on  the  banks  of  the 

slow-moving  Nile.  " •  probably  made  this 

place  look  like  a  shack!"  he  had  exultantly 
thought.  And  the  benign  monarch  had  ended  his 
reign  in  peace,  to  be  laid  magnificently  away,  to 
repose  undisturbed  while  the  sands  drifted  over 
him  —  until  — — 

The  hour  had  come.  "My  men  have  succeeded, 
after  incredible  hardships,"  wrote  Professor  Bal- 
thasar.  "The  goods  will  be  delivered  to  you 
Thursday  night,  the  tenth.  I  trust  the  final  pay 
ment  will  be  ready,  as,  relying  on  your  honour, 
I  have  advanced " 

The  rest  did  not  matter.  His  honour  was  surely 
to  be  relied  upon.  The  money  had  been  richly 
earned.  An  able  man,  this  Balthasar!  He  had 
achieved  the  thing  with  admirable  secrecy.  Bean 
had  feared  the  hounds  of  the  daily  press.  They 
might  discover  who  It  was,  to  whom  It  was 
going;  discover  the  true  identity  of  Bunker 
Bean.  The  whole  thing  might  come  out  in  the 
papers!  But  Balthasar  had  known  how.  He 
approved  the  caution  that  had  led  him  to  speak 
of  "the  goods";  there  was  something  almost  witty 
about  it. 

He  leaned  far  out  a  window,  listening,  straining 


i44  BUNKER  BEAN 

his  eyes  up  and  down  the  lighted  avenue.  There 
was  confusion  in  his  mind  as  to  how  It  could  most 
fittingly  be  brought  to  him.  The  sable  vision  of 
a  hearse  drawn  by  four  lordly  black  horses  at  first 
possessed  his  mind.  But  this  was  dismissed;  there 
was  no  death!  And  the  spectacle  would  excite 
comment.  The  idea  of  an  ambulance,  which  he 
next  considered,  seemed  equally  impracticable. 
It  would  have  to  be  done  quietly;  Balthasar  would 
know.  Trust  Balthasar! 

He  heard  the  rhythmic  clump-clump  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  asphalt  pavement.  This  was  pre 
sently  accompanied  by  the  sounds  of  wheels. 
An  express  wagon  came  under  the  street-lights. 
Balthasar  rode  beside  the  driver,  his  frock  coat 
and  glossy  tall  hat  having  been  relinquished  for 
the  garb  of  an  ordinary  citizen.  Back  of  them 
in  the  wagon  he  could  distinguish  the  lines  of  an 
Object.  It  had  come  to  him  in  a  common  express 
wagon,  in  a  common  crate,  and  the  driver  did  not 
even  wear  a  black  mask.  Balthasar  had  cun 
ningly  eluded  detection  by  pretending  there  was 
nothing  to  conceal. 

He  drew  back  from  the  window  and  with  fast 
beating  heart  went  to  open  the  door.  They  were 
already  on  the  stairway.  Balthasar  was  coming 
first.  With  sublime  effrontery  he  had  impressed 
Cassidy  to  help  carry  It,  and  Cassidy  was  warning 
the  expressman  to  look  out  for  that  turn  an'  not 
tear  inta  th'  plashter. 

It  was  lowered  to  the  floor  in  the  throne-room. 
Cassidy  and  the  expressman  puffed  freely  and 


BUNKER  BEAN  145 

looked  at  the  thing  as  if  wondering  how  two  men 
had  ever  been  equal  to  it. 

"'Twould  be  brickybac,"  said  Cassidy  genially. 

"That  there  hall's  choked  with  dust,"  said  the 
expressman  with  seeming  irrelevance. 

"I  noticed  it  meself,"  said  Cassidy. 

"Clogged  me  throat  up  fur  fair,"  continued  the 
expressman  huskily. 

"Pay  the  men  liberally  and  let  them  be  on  their 
way,"  said  Balthasar.  Bean  pressed  money  upon 
both  and  they  departed. 

"You  couldn't  get  me  to  do  it  again  for  twice 
the  money,"  said  Balthasar;  "the  nervous  strain 
I've  been  under.  A  custom-house  detective  was 
on  our  trail,  but  one  of  my  men  took  care  of  him 

—  at  a  dark  corner." 
Bean  shuddered. 
"They  didn't " 

"Oh,  nothing  serious.  He'll  be  as  well  as  ever 
in  a  few  days.  Got  a  hatchet."  He  gestured 
significantly  toward  the  crate. 

But  this  was  too  precipitate  for  Bean.  He 
could  not  disinter  himself  — •  it  seemed  like  that 

—  under  the  eyes  of  Balthasar. 

"Not  now!     Not  now!     You've  done  your  part 

—  here!"     He  passed  Balthasar  the  check  he  had 
written  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"I'll  leave  you,  then,"  said  the  professor. 
"But  one  thing,  don't  handle  it  much.  It  might 
disintegrate.  I  bid  you  farewell,  my  young 
friend." 

Bean,  at  the  door,  listened  to  his  descending 


146  BUNKER  BEAN 

steps.  The  professor  was  whistling.  He  recog 
nized  the  air,  "Call  Me  Up  Some  Rainy  After 
noon."  It  was  a  lively  air  and  the  professor 
rendered  it  ably  but  quite  softly. 

The  door  locked,  he  was  back  staring  at  the 
crate  that  concealed  his  dead  self.  He  was  help 
less  before  it.  The  fleshly  tenement  of  a  great 
king  who  had  later  flashed  upon  the  world  as 
Napoleon  I,  and  was  now  Bunker  Bean!  Could 
he  bear  to  look?  He  trembled  and  knew  himself 
weak.  Yet  it  would  be  done,  some  time. 

There  was  a  vigorous  knock  at  the  door.  All 
was  discovered! 

The  crime  of  assault  at  the  dark  corner  had 
been  traced  to  his  door.  Balthasar  had  betrayed 
him.  The  Egyptian  authorities  had  discovered 
their  loss.  The  thing  was  there.  He  was  caught 
red-handed. 

He  reached  the  door  and  cautiously  opened  it 
an  inch.  Cassidy  stood  there,  armed  with  a 
hatchet.  They  would  use  violence! 

"Hatchet!"  said  Cassidy,  genially  extending 
the  weapon.  He  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand.  The  aroma  of  beer  stole  into  the 
room. 

"F'r  brox  brickybac!"  insinuated  Cassidy. 

"Thanks!"  said  Bean,  accepting  the  tool. 

"We  kemfrum  th'  sem  county,  Mayo,  him  an* 
me,"  volunteered  Cassidy.  "G'night!" 

Once  more  Bean  faced  the  crate.  It  must  be 
done  at  once.  Discovery  was  too  probable. 
Gingerly  he  forced  the  blade  under  one  of  the 


BUNKER  BEAN  147 

boards  and  pried.  The  nails  screeched  horribly 
as  they  were  withdrawn.  The  task  was  simple 
enough;  the  crate  was  a  flimsy  affair  to  have 
withstood  so  difficult  a  journey.  But  after  each 
board  was  removed  he  peered  to  the  street  from 
behind  the  closed  blind,  half  expecting  to  find 
policemen  drawn  to  the  spot. 

A  smoothly  packed  layer  of  excelsior  greeted 
his  eyes.  It  was  rather  reassuring.  He  felt  that 
he  might  be  unpacking  any  casual  object.  Ex 
posed  at  last  was  the  wooden  case  that  enveloped 
him! 

Awestruck,  he  looked  down  at  it  for  a  long  time. 
He  recognized  the  workmanship,  having  seen  a 
dozen  such  in  the  museum  in  the  park.  He  knelt 
by  it  and  ran  a  reverent  hand  over  its  painted 
surface.  In  many  colours  were  birds  and  beasts, 
and  men  in  profile,  and  queer  marks  that  he  knew 
to  be  picture-writing;  processions  of  slaves  and 
oxen,  reapers  and  water-bearers.  The  tints  were 
fresh  under  their  overlaying  lacquer.  There  was 
even  a  smell  of  varnish.  He  wondered  if  the 
contents  —  if  It  —  were  in  the  same  remarkable 
state  of  preservation.  He  rapped  on  the  thin 
wood  — •  it  was  cedar,  he  thought,  or  perhaps 
sycamore.  The  sound  was  musical,  resonant;  the 
same  note  that  had  vibrated  how  many  thousands 
of  years  before. 

Nap  came  up  to  smell,  seeming  to  suspect  that 
the  box  might  contain  food.  He  stretched  his  fore- 
paws  to  the  top  of  the  case  and  betrayed  eagerness. 

"Napoleon!"  cried   Bean  sternly,  putting  the 


i48  BUNKER  BEAN 

dog's  complete  name  upon  him  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  banished  to  his  couch  and  made  to  know 
that  leaving  it  would  entail  unpleasantness. 

The  thought  of  the  Corsican  came  back  with 
a  new  significance.  In  that  embodiment  he  had 
felt,  perhaps  dimly  recalled,  his  Egyptian  life. 
Had  he  not  been  drawn  irresistibly  to  Egypt? 
"In  the  shadow  of  the  pyramids,"  he  had  read  in 
a  history,  "the  conqueror  of  Italy  dreamed  of  the 
pomp  and  power  of  a  crown  and  sceptre,  and  upon 
his  return  to  France  from  the  Egyptian  expedition, 
with  characteristic  energy  he  set  himself  to  work 
to  bring  the  dream  to  pass  — • — "  It  was  plain 
enough.  He  knew  now  the  inner  meaning  of  that 
engraving  he  had  bought,  in  which  Napoleon  stood 
in  rapt  meditation  before  the  Sphinx.  They  had 
all  —  King,  Emperor,  Bean  —  been  dreamers  that 
brought  their  dreams  to  pass.  He  mused  long, 
staring  down  at  the  case;  a  queerly  shaped  thing, 
fashioned  to  follow  the  lines  of  the  human  form. 
From  the  neck  the  shoulders  rounded  gracefully. 
They  might  have  been  cut  to  give  the  wearer  the 
appearance  of  perfect  physical  development;  at 
least  they  seemed  to  fit  him  neatly. 

It  occurred  to  Bean  that  the  case  should  not  lie 
prone.  It  suggested  death  where  death  was  not. 
He  pulled  out  more  excelsior  until  he  could  raise 
the  case.  It  was  surprisingly  light  and  he  leaned 
it  upright  against  the  wall.  He  now  tried  to 
pretend  that  everything  was  over.  He  gathered 
boards,  excelsior  and  the  crate  and  piled  them 
in  the  kitchenette,  which  they  approximately  filled. 


BUNKER  BEAN  149 

But  inevitably  he  was  brought  back.  He  stood 
with  hands  upon  the  cover  of  the  upreared  case, 
drew  a  long  shivering  breath  and  gently  lifted  it 
off.  His  eyes  were  upon  the  swathed  figure  within, 
then  slowly  they  crept  up  the  yellowed  linen  and 
came  to  rest  upon  the  bared  face. 

He  had  tried  feebly  to  prefigure  this  face,  but 
never  had  his  visioning  approached  the  actual 
in  its  majestic,  still  beauty.  The  brow  was  nobly 
broad,  the  nose  straight  and  purposeful,  the  chin 
bold  yet  delicate.  The  grimness  of  the  mouth  was 
relieved  by  a  faint  lift  of  the  upper  lip,  perhaps 
an  echo  of  the  smile  with  which  he  greeted  death. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  teeth  from  under  the  lip. 
The  eyes  had  closed  peacefully;  the  lids  lay  light 
upon  their  secrets  as  if  they  might  flutter  and  open 
again.  On  cheek  and  chin  was  a  descernible 
growth  of  dark  beard;  the  hair  above  the  brow 
was  black  and  abundant.  It  was  a  kingly  face, 
a  face  of  command,  though  benign.  It  was  all 
too  easy  to  believe  that  a  crown  had  become  it 
well.  And  there  had  been  no  weakening  at  the 
end,  no  sunken  cheeks  nor  hollowed  temples.  The 
lines  were  full.  The  general  colour  was  of  rich 
red  mahogany. 

He  ran  a  tremulous  hand  over  the  face,  smoothed 
the  thick  hair,  fingered  the  firm  lips  that  almost 
smiled.  Under  the  swathing  of  linen  he  could  see 
where  the  hands  were  folded  on  the  breast.  Low 
down  on  the  right  jaw  was  unmistakably  a  mole, 
a  thing  that  had  strangely  survived  on  Bean's 
own  face.  Again  he  ran  a  hand  over  the  features, 


150  BUNKER  BEAN 

then  a  corroborating  hand  over  his  own.  Intently 
and  long  he  studied  each  detail,  nostrils,  eyebrows, 
ears,  hair,  the  tips  of  the  just-revealed  teeth. 

"God!"  he  breathed.  It  was  hardly  more  than 
a  whisper  and  was  uttered  in  all  reverence. 

Then 

"God!  how  I've  changed!" 


VIII 

ON  THE  following  afternoon,  among  the 
Sunday  throng  in  the  Metropolitan  Mu 
seum  of  Art,  a  slender  young  man  of 
inconsiderable  stature,  alert  as  to  movement,  but 
with  an  expression  of  absent  dreaming,  might  have 
been  observed  giving  special  attention  to  the 
articles  in  those  rooms  devoted  to  ancient  Egypt. 
Doubtless,  however,  no  one  did  observe  him  more 
than  casually,  for,  though  of  singularly  erect 
carriage,  he  was  garbed  inconspicuously  in  neutral 
tints,  and  his  behaviour  was  never  such  as  to  di 
vert  attention  from  the  surrounding  spoils  of  the 
archaeologist. 

Had  his  mind  been  as  an  open  book,  he  would 
surely  have  become  a  figure  of  interest.  His 
mental  attitude  was  that  of  a  professional  beau 
of  acknowledged  preeminence;  he  was  comparing 
the  self  at  home  in  the  mummy  case  with  the 
remnants  of  defunct  Pharaohs  here  exposed  under 
glass,  and  he  was  sniffing,  in  spirit,  at  their  lack 
of  kingly  dignity  and  their  inferior  state  of  pres 
ervation.  Their  wooden  cases  were  often  marred, 
faded,  and  broken.  Their  shrouding  linen  was 
frayed  and  stained.  Their  features  were  un 
impressive  and,  in  too  many  instances,  shockingly 
incomplete.  They  looked  very  little  like  king* 


152  BUNKER  BEAN 

and  the  laudatory  recitals  of  their  one-time 
greatness,  translated  for  the  contemporary  eye, 
seemed  to  be  only  the  vapourings  of  third-class 
pugilists. 

Sneering  openly  at  a  damaged  Pharaoh  of  the 
fourth  dynasty,  he  reflected  that  some  day  he 
would  confer  upon  that  museum  a  relic  tran 
scending  all  others.  He  saw  it  enshrined  in  a  room 
by  itself;  it  should  never  be  demeaned  by  associ 
ation  with  those  rusty  cadavers  he  saw  about  him. 
This  would  be  when  he  had  passed  on  to  another 
body,  in  accordance  with  the  law  of  Karma. 
He  would  leave  a  sum  to  the  museum  authorities, 
specifically  to  build  this  room,  and  to  it  would 
come  thousands,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  superior  Ram- 
tah,  last  king  of  the  pre-dynastic  period,  surviving 
in  a  state  calculated  to  impress  every  beholder 
with  his  singular  merits.  Ram-tah,  cheated  of  his 
place  in  history's  pantheon,  should  here  at  last 
come  into  his  own;  serene,  beauteous,  majestic, 
looking  every  inch  a  king,  where  mere  Pharaohs 
looked  like  —  like  the  coffee-stained,  untidy  frag 
ments  they  were. 

He  left  the  place  in  a  tolerant  mood.  He  had 
weighed  himself  with  the  other  great  dead  of 
the  world. 

That  night  he  sat  again  before  this  old  king, 
staring  until  he  lost  himself,  staring  as  he  had 
before  stared  into  the  depths  of  his  shell.  The 
shell,  when  he  had  looked  steadily  at  it  for  a  long 
time,  had  always  seemed  to  put  him  in  close  touch 
with  unknown  forces.  He  had  once  tried  to 


BUNKER  BEAN  153 

explain  this  to  his  Aunt  Clara,  who  understood 
nearly  everything,  but  his  effort  had  been  clumsy 
enough  and  had  brought  her  no  enlightenment. 
"You  look  into  it  —  and  it  makes  you  feel!"  was 
all  he  had  been  able  to  tell  her. 

But  the  shell  was  now  discarded  for  the  puissant 
person  of  Ram-tah.  The  message  was  more 
pointed.  He  drew  power  from  the  old  dead  face 
that  yet  seemed  so  living.  He  was  himself  a  wise 
and  good  king.  No  longer  could  he  play  the 
coward  before  trivial  adversities.  He  would 
direct  large  affairs;  he  would  live  big.  Never 
again  would  he  be  afraid  of  death  or  Breede  or 
policemen  or  the  mockery  of  his  fellows  —  or 
women!  He  might  still  avoid  the  latter,  but  not 
in  terror;  only  in  a  dignified  dread  lest  they  talk 
and  spoil  it  all. 

He  would  choose,  in  due  time,  a  worthy  consort, 
and  a  certain  Crown  Prince  would,  in  further  due 
time,  startle  the  world  with  his  left-handed  pitch 
ing.  It  was  a  prospect  all  golden  to  dream  upon. 
His  spirit  grew  tall  and  its  fibre  toughened. 

To  be  sure,  he  did  not  achieve  a  kingly  disregard 
for  public  opinion  all  in  one  day.  There  was  the 
matter  of  that  scarlet  cravat.  Monday  morning 
he  excavated  it  from  the  bottom  of  the  trunk, 
where  it  lay  beside  "Napoleon,  Man  and  Lover." 
He  even  adjusted  it,  carelessly  pretending  that  it 
was  just  any  cravat,  the  first  that  had  come  to 
hand.  But  its  colour  was  still  too  alarming.  It  — • 
so  he  usually  thought  of  the  great  Ram-tah  — 
would  have  worn  the  cravat  without  a  tremor, 


154  BUNKER  BEAN 

but  It  had  been  born  a  king.  One  glance  at  the 
thing  about  his  neck  had  vividly  recalled  the 
awkward  circumstance  that,  to  the  world  at  large, 
he  was  still  Bunker  Bean,  a  youth  incapable  of 
flaunt  or  flourish. 

Let  it  not  be  thought,  however,  that  his  new 
growth  showed  no  result  above  ground.  He 
purchased  and  wore  that  very  morning  a  cravat 
not  entirely  red,  it  is  true,  but  one  distinguished 
by  a  narrow  red  stripe  on  a  backing  of  bronze, 
which  the  clerk  who  manoeuvred  the  sale  assured 
him  was  "tasty."  Also  he  commanded  a  suit  of 
clothes  of  a  certain  light  check  in  which  the  Bean 
of  uninspired  days  would  never  have  braved 
public  scrutiny.  Such  were  the  immediate  and 
actual  fruits  of  Ram-tah's  influence. 

There  were  other  effects,  perhaps  more  subtle. 
Performing  his  accustomed  work  for  Breede  that 
day,  he  began  to  study  his  employer  from  the 
kingly,  or  Ram-tah,  point  of  view.  He  conceived 
that  Breede  in  the  time  of  Ram-tah  would  have 
been  a  steward,  a  keeper  of  the  royal  granaries,  a 
dependable  accountant;  a  good  enough  man  in 
his  lowly  station,  but  one  who  could  never  rise. 
His  laxness  in  the  manner  of  dress  was  seen  to  be 
ingrained,  an  incurable  defect  of  soul.  In  the 
time  of  Ram-tah  he  had  doubtless  worn  the 
Egyptian  equivalent  for  detached  cuffs,  and  he 
would  be  doing  the  like  for  a  thousand  incarnations 
to  come.  All  too  plainly  Breede's  Karmic  future 
promised  little  of  interest.  His  degree  of  ascent 
in  the  human  scale  was  hardly  perceptible. 


BUNKER  BEAN  xjj 

Bean  was  pleased  at  this  thought.  It  left  him 
in  a  fine  glow  of  superiority  and  sharpened  his  relish 
for  the  mad  jest  of  their  present  attitudes  —  a  jest 
demanding  that  he  seem  to  be  Breede's  subordinate. 

Naturally,  this  was  a  situation  that  would  not 
long  endure.  It  was  too  preposterous.  Money 
came  not  only  to  kings  but  to  the  kingly.  He 
troubled  as  little  about  details  as  would  have  any 
other  king.  Were  there  not  steel  kings,  and  iron 
kings,  railway  kings,  oil  kings  — •  money  kings  ? 
He  thought  it  was  not  unlikely  that  he  would  first 
engage  the  world's  notice  as  an  express  king.  He 
had  received  those  fifty  shares  of  stock  from  Aunt 
Clara  and  regarded  them  as  a  presage  of  his  coming 
directorship.  But  he  took  no  pride  in  this  thought. 
Baseball  was  to  be  his  life  work.  He  would  own 
one  major-league  team,  at  least;  perhaps  three  or 
four.  He  would  be  known  as  the  baseball  king, 
and  the  world  would  forget  his  petty  triumphs  as 
a  director  of  express. 

He  deemed  it  significant  that  the  present 
directors  of  that  same  Federal  Express  Company 
one  day  held  a  meeting  in  Breede's  office.  It 
showed,  he  thought,  how  life  "worked  around." 
The  thing  was  coming  to  his  very  door.  With 
considerable  interest  he  studied  the  directors  as 
they  came  and  went.  Most  of  them,  like  Breede, 
were  men  whose  wealth  the  daily  press  had  a  habit 
of  estimating  in  rotund  millions.  He  regarded 
them  knowingly,  thinking  he  could  tell  them 
something  that  might  surprise  them.  But  they 
passed  him,  all  unheeding,  moneyed-looking  men 


156  BUNKER  BEAN 

of  good  round  girth,  who  seemed  to  have  found 
the  dollar-game  worth  while. 

The  most  of  them,  he  was  glad  to  note,  were 
in  dress  slightly  more  advanced  than  Breede. 
One  of  them,  a  small  but  important-looking  old 
gentleman  with  a  purple  face  and  a  white  parted 
beard,  became  on  the  instant  Bean's  ideal  for 
correctness.  From  his  gray  spats  to  his  top-hat, 
he  was  "  dignified  yet  different,"  although  dressing, 
for  example,  in  a  more  subdued  key  than  Bulger. 
Yet  he  was  a  constantly  indignant  looking  old 
gentleman,  and  Bean  guessed  that  he  would  be 
a  trouble-maker  on  any  board  of  directors.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  would  like  to  take  this 
person's  place  on  the  board;  oust  him  in  spite  of 
his  compelling  garments. 

And  Breede  would  know  then  that  he  was  some 
thing  more  than  a  machine.  On  the  whole,  he  felt 
sorry  for  Breede  at  times.  Perhaps  he  would  let 
him  have  a  little  of  the  baseball  stock. 

So  he  sat  and  dreamed  of  his  great  past  and  of  his 
brilliant  future.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Bean  as  the 
blind  poet  had  been  not  the  least  authentic  of 
Balthasar's  visions. 

And  inevitably  he  encountered  the  flapper  in 
this  dreaming;  "Chubbins,"  he  liked  to  call  her. 
More  and  more  he  was  suspecting  that  Tommy 
Hollins  was  not  the  man  for  Chubbins.  He 
would  prefer  to  see  her  the  bride  of  an  older  man, 
two  or  three,  or  even  four,  years  older,  who  was 
settled  in  life.  A  young  girl  —  a  young  girl's 
parents  —  couldn't  be  too  careful! 


BUNKER  BEAN  157 

He  was  not  for  many  days  at  a  time  deprived 
of  the  sight  of  the  young  girl  in  question.  She 
ha*d  formed  a  habit  of  calling  for  her  father  at  the 
close  of  his  day's  hard  work.  And  she  did  not 
wait  for  him  in  the  big  car;  she  sat  in  his  office, 
where,  after  she  had  inquired  solicitously  about 
his  poor  foot,  she  settled  her  gaze  upon  Bean. 
And  Bean  no  longer  evaded  this  gaze.  She  was 
a  clever,  attractive  little  thing  and  he  liked  her 
well.  He  thought  of  things  he  would  tell  her  for 
her  own  good  at  the  first  opportunity. 

He  wondered  guiltily  when  Breede's  next  attack 
might  be  expected,  and  he  had  a  lively  impression 
that  the  flapper,  too,  was  more  curious  than 
alarmed  about  this.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  she 
was  actually  wishing  to  be  told  things  by  him  for 
her  own  good. 

However  that  may  be,  his  next  summons  to  the 
country  place  came  without  undue  delay,  and  it 
is  not  at  all  improbable  that  Breede  fell  a  victim 
to  what  the  terminology  of  one  of  our  most  pop 
ular  cults  identifies  as  "malicious  animal  magnet 


ism." 


On  this  occasion  he  was  not  oppressed  by  those 
attentions  which  the  flapper  and  Grandma,  the 
Demon,  still  bestowed  upon  him.  Where  he  had 
once  fled,  he  now  put  himself  in  the  way  of  them. 
He  listened  with  admirably  simulated  interest 
to  Grandma's  account  of  the  suffrage  play  for 
which  she  was  rehearsing.  She  was  to  appear 
in  the  mob  scene.  He  was  certain  she  would  lend 
vivacity  to  any  mob.  But  he  was  glad  that  the 


158  BUNKER  BEAN 

flapper  was  not  to  appear.  Voting  and  smashing 
windows  were  bad  enough. 

He  tried  at  first  to  talk  to  the  flapper  about 
Tommy  Hollins,  whom  he  airily  designated  as 
"that  Hollins  boy."  It  seemed  to  be  especially 
needed,  because  the  Hollins  boy  arrived  after 
breakfast  every  day  and  left  only  in  the  late 
afternoon.  But  the  flapper  declined  nevertheless 
to  consider  him  as  meat  for  serious  converse. 

Bean  considered  that  this  was  sheer  flirting, 
whereupon  he  flung  principle  to  the  winds  and 
flirted  himself. 

"You  show  signs  of  life,"  declared  Grandma, 
who  was  quick  to  note  this  changed  demeanor. 
And  Bean  smirked  like  a  man  of  the  world. 

"She  never  set  her  mind  on  anything  yet  that 
she  didn't  get  it,"  added  Grandma,  naming  no  one. 
"She's  like  her  father  there." 

And  Bean  strolled  off  to  enjoy  a  vision  of  himself 
defeating  her  purpose  to  ensnare  the  Hollins  youth. 
Once  he  would  have  considered  it  crass  pre 
sumption,  but  that  was  before  a  certain  sarcoph 
agus  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Nile  had  been  looted 
of  its  imperial  occupant.  Now  he  merely  recalled 
a  story  about  a  King  Cophetua  and  a  beggar  maid. 
It  was  a  comparison  that  would  have  intensely 
interested  the  flapper's  mother,  who  was  this  time 
regarding  Bean  through  her  glazed  weapon  as  if 
he  were  some  queer  growth  the  head  gardener  had 
brought  from  the  conservatory. 

Grandma  deftly  probed  his  past  for  aifairs  of 
the  heart.  She  pointedly  had  him  alone,  and  her 


BUNKER  BEAN  159 

intimation  was  that  he  might  talk  freely,  as  to  a 
woman  of  understanding  and  broad  sympathy. 
But  Bean  made  a  wretched  mess  of  it. 

Certainly  there  had  been  "affairs."  There  was 
the  girl  in  Chicago,  two  doors  down  the  street, 
whom  he  had  once  taken  to  walk  in  the  park,  but 
only  once,  because  she  talked;  the  girl  in  the 
business  college  who  had  pretty  hair  and  always 
smiled  when  she  looked  at  him;  and  another  who, 
he  was  almost  sure,  had  sent  him  an  outspoken 
valentine;  yes,  there  had  been  plenty  of  girls, 
but  he  hadn't  bothered  much  about  them. 

And  Grandma,  plainly  incredulous,  averred 
that  he  was  too  deep  for  her.  Bean  was  on  the 
point  of  inventing  a  close  acquaintance  with  an 
actress,  which  he  considered  would  be  scandalous 
enough  to  compel  a  certain  respect  he  seemed  to 
find  lacking  in  the  old  lady,  but  he  saw  quickly 
that  she  would  confuse  and  trip  him  with  a  few 
questions.  He  was  obliged  to  content  himself 
with  looking  the  least  bit  smug  when  she  said: 

"You're  a  deep  one  —  too  deep  for  me!" 

He  tried  hard  to  look  deep  and  at  least  as 
depraved  as  the  conventions  of  good  society 
seemed  to  demand. 

He  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  sinful  thing. 
The  girl  was  of  course  plighted  to  the  Hollins  boy, 
and  yet  she  was  putting  herself  in  his  way.  Very 
well!  He  would  teach  her  the  danger  of  playing 
with  fire.  He  would  bring  all  of  his  arts  and  wiles 
to  bear.  True,  in  behaving  thus  he  was  conscious 
of  falling  below  the  moral  standards  of  a  wise  and 


160  BUNKER  BEAN 

good  king  who  had  never  stooped  to  baseness  of 
any  sort.  But  he  was  now  living  in  a  different 
age,  and  somehow 

"I'm  a  dual  nature,"  he  thought.  And  he 
applied  to  himself  another  phrase  he  seemed  to 
recall  from  his  reading  of  magazine  stories. 

"I've    got    the    artistic    temper!"     This,    he 

gathered,   was   held   to  explain,  if  not  to  justify, 

many  departures  from  the  conventional  in  affairs 

of  the  heart.     It  was  a  kind  of  licensed  madness. 

,    Endowed  with  the  "artistic  temper,"  you  were 

r        not  held  accountable  when  you  did  things  that 

made  plain  people  gasp.     That  was  it!     That  was 

why  he  was  carrying  on  with  Tommy  Rollins' 

girl,  and  not  caring  what  happened. 

In  his  times  of  leisure  they  walked  through  the 
shaded  aisles  of  those  too  well-kept  grounds,  or 
they  sat  in  seats  of  twisted  iron  and  honored  the 
setting  sun  with  their  notice.  They  did  not  talk 
much,  yet  they  were  acutely  aware  of  each  other. 
Sometimes  the  silence  was  prolonged  to  awkward 
ness,  and  one  of  them  would  jestingly  offer  a  penny 
for  the  other's  thoughts.  This  made  a  little  talk, 
but  not  much,  and  sometimes  increased  the  awk 
wardness;  it  was  so  plain  that  what  they  were 
thinking  of  could  not  be  told  for  money. 

They  did  tell  their  wonderful  ages  and  their  full 
names  and  held  their  hands  side  by  side  to  note  the 
astonishing  differences  between  the  "lines."  A 
palmist  had  revealed  something  quite  amazing 
to  the  flapper,  but  she  refused  to  tell  what  it 
was,  with  a  significance  that  left  Bean  in  a 


BUNKER  BEAN  161 

tumultuous  and  pleasurable  whirl  of  cowardice. 
Their  hands  flew  apart  rather  self-consciously. 
Bean  felt  himself  a  scoundrel  —  "  leading  on" 
a  young  thing  like  that  who  was  engaged  to 
another.  It  was  flirting  of  the  most  reprehensible 
sort.  But  there  was  his  dual  nature;  a  strain  of 
the  errant  Corsican  had  survived  to  debauch  him. 

And  if  she  didn't  want  to  be  "led  on,"  he 
thought  indignantly,  why  did  she  so  persistently 
put  herself  in  the  way  of  it?  She  was  always 
there !  Serve  her  right,  then !  Serve  the  Hollins 
boy  right,  too! 

Grandma  eyed  them  shrewdly  with  her  Demon's 
glance  of  questioning,  but  did  nothing  to  keep 
them  apart.  On  the  contrary,  she  would  often 
brazenly  leave  them  together  after  conducting 
them  to  remote  nooks.  She  made  no  flimsy 
excuses.  She  seemed  indifferent  to  the  fate  of 
this  tender  bud  left  at  the  mercy  of  one  whom 
she  affected  to  regard  as  a  seasoned  roue. 

There  were  four  days  of  this  regrettable  phi 
landering.  On  the  fifth  Breede  manifested  alarm 
ing  symptoms  of  recovery.  He  ceased  to  be  the 
meek  man  he  was  under  actual  suffering,  and  was 
several  times  guilty  of  short-worded  explosions 
that  should  never  have  reached  the  ears  of  good 
women. 

Said  the  flapper  in  tones  of  genuine  dismay 
that  evening: 

"I'm  afraid  Pops  is  going  to  be  well  enough  to 
go  to  town  to-morrow!" 

Even  Grandma,  pacing  a  bit  of  choice  turf  near 


162  BUNKER  BEAN 

at  hand,  rehearsing  her  lines  in  the  mob  scene, 
was  shocked  at  this. 

"You  are  a  selfish  little  pig!"  she  called. 

"But  he  will  have  to  go  away,  if  Pops  goes," 
said  the  flapper,  in  magnificent  extenuation. 

The  words  told.  Grandma  seemed  to  see 
things  in  a  new  light. 

"You  come  with  me,"  she  commanded;  "both 
of  you." 

Ahead  of  them  she  led  the  way  to  that  pergola 
where  Bean  had  once  overheard  their  talk. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Grandma,  and  herself  sat 
between  them. 

"You  are  a  couple  of  children,"  she  began 

accusingly.  "Why,  when  I  was  your  age " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  for  some  moments 
stared  into  the  tracery  of  vines. 

"When  I  was  your  age,"  she  began  once  more, 
but  in  a  curiously  altered  voice  —  "Lord!  What 
a  time  of  years!"  She  spoke  slowly,  softly,  as  one 
who  would  evoke  phantoms.  "Why,  at  your 
age,"  she  turned  slightly  to  the  flapper,  "  I'd  been 
married  two  years,  and  your  father  was  crawling 
about  under  my  feet  as  I  did  the  housework." 

She  was  still  looking  intently  ahead  to  make 
her  vision  alive. 

"What  a  time  of  years,  and  how  different! 
Sixty  years  ago  —  why,  it  seems  farther  back 
than  Noah's  ark.  The  log  cabins  in  the  little 
clearings,  and  people  marrying  when  they  wanted 
to  —  always  early,  and  working  hard  and  raising 
big  families.  I  was  the  only  girl,  but  I  had  nine 


BUNKER  BEAN  163 

brothers.  And  Jim,  your  father's  father,  my  dear, 
I  remember  the  very  moment  he  began  to  take 
notice  of  me,  coming  out  of  the  log  church  one 
Sabbath.  He  only  looked  at  me,  that  was  all,  and 
I  had  to  pretend  I  didn't  know.  Then  he  came 
nights  and  sat  in  front  of  the  big  open  fire,  with 
all  of  us,  at  first.  But  after  a  little,  the  others 
would  climb  up  the  ladder  to  the  loft  and  leave  us, 
and  we'd  maybe  eat  a  mince  pie  that  I'd  made  — 
I  was  a  good  cook  at  sixteen  —  and  there  would 
be  a  pitcher  of  cider,  and  outside,  the  wind  would 
be  driving  the  snow  against  the  tiny  window- 
panes  —  I  can  hear  that  sound  now,  and  the 
sputtering  of  the  backlog,  and  Jim  — oh,  well1," 
She  waved  the  scene  back. 

"When  we  were  married,  Jim  had  his  eighty 
acres  all  cleared,  a  yoke  of  nice  fat  steers,  a  cow, 
two  pigs,  and  a  couple  of  sheep;  not  much,  but  it 
seemed  enough  then.  The  furniture  was  home 
made,  the  table-ware  was  tin  plates  and  pewter 
spoons  and  horn-handled  knives,  and  a  set  of  real 
china  that  Pa  and  Ma  gave  us  —  that  was  for 
company  —  and  a  feather-bed  and  patch-work 
quilts  I'd  made,  and  a  long-barrelled  rifle,  and  the 
best  coon-dog,  Jim  said,  in  the  whole  of  York 
State.  Oh,  well!" 

Bean  became  aware  that  the  old  lady  had 
grasped  his  hand,  and  he  divined  that  she  was  also 
holding  a  hand  of  the  flapper. 

"And  my!  such  excitement  you  never  did  see 
when  little  Jim  came!  We  began  to  save  right 
off  to  send  him  to  a  good  seminary.  We  were 


164  BUNKER  BEAN 

going  to  make  a  preacher  out  of  him;  and  see  the 
way  he's  turned  out!  Lord,  what  would  his  father 
make  of  this  place  and  our  little  Jim,  if  he  was  to 
come  back? 

"I  lost  him  before  he  got  to  see  many  changes  in 
the  world.  I  remember  we  did  go  to  a  party  in 
Fredonia  one  time,  where  a  woman  from  Buffalo 
wore  a  low-necked  gown,  and  Jim  never  got  over 
it.  He  swore  to  the  day  of  his  death  that  any 
woman  who'd  wear  'a  dug-out  dress'  was  a  hussy. 
He  didn't  know  what  the  world  could  be  coming 
to,  when  they  allowed  such  goings-on.  Poor  Jim! 
I  was  still  young  when  he  went,  and  of  course  — 
but  I  couldn't.  I'd  had  my  man  and  I'd  had  my 
baby,  and  somehow  I  was  through.  I  wanted  to 
learn  more  about  the  world,  and  little  Jim  was 
growing  up  and  had  a  nice  situation  in  the  store 
at  Fredonia,  working  early  and  late,  sleeping 
under  the  counter,  and  saving  his  fifty  dollars 
clear  every  year.  I  knew  he'd  always  provide  for 
me Dear  me!  how  I  run  on!  Where  was  I?" 

Bean's  hand  was  released,  and  Grandma  rose 
to  her  feet,  turning  to  look  down  upon  them. 

"  I  forgot  what  I  started  to  say,  but  maybe  it  was 
this,  that  the  world  hasn't  changed  so  much  as 
folks  often  think.  I  get  to  watching  young  peo 
ple  sometimes  —  it  seems  as  if  they  were  like 
the  young  people  in  my  day,  and  I  think  any 
young  man  that's  steady  and  decent  and  has  a 
good  situation  —  what  I  mean  is  this,  that  he  — 
well,  it  depends  on  the  girl,  as  it  always  did." 

She    turned    and    walked    to    the    end   of  the 


BUNKER  BEAN  165 

pergola,  fifty  feet  away.  There  she  threw  up  a 
clenched  fist  and  began  to  emit  groans,  cries  of 
hoarse  rage  and  ragged  phrases  of  abuse.  She 
was  again  rehearsing  her  lines  in  the  mob 
scene  of  the  equal-suffrage  play.  At  the  head  of 
her  fellow  mobs-women,  she  hurled  harsh  epithets 
at  the  Prime  Minister  of  the  oldest  English- 
speaking  nation  on  earth.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
escape  for  the  Prime  Minister.  They  had  him. 

"We've  broken  windows,  we'll  break  heads!" 
shouted  the  Demon,  and  a  gardener  crossing  the 
grounds  might  have  been  seen  to  quicken  his  pace 
after  one  backward  look. 

The  pair  on  the  bench  were  inattentive.  They 
had  instinctively  drawn  together,  but  they  were 
silent.  In  Bean's  mind  was  a  confusion  of  many 
matters:  Breede  sleeping  under  a  counter — • 
people  in  log-cabins  getting  married  —  the  best 
coon-dog  in  York  State  —  a  yoke  of  nice  fat 
steers  

But  beneath  this  was  a  sharpened  consciousness 
of  the  girl  breathing  at  his  side.  She  seemed 
curiously  to  be  waiting  —  waiting!  The  silence 
and  their  stillness  became  unbearable.  Some 
thing  must  break  .  .  .  their  breaths  were  too 
long  drawn.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  the  flapper 
was  unaccountably  standing  beside  him.  It  was 
too  dark  to  see  her  face,  but  he  knew  that  for  once 
she  was  not  looking  at  him;  for  once  that  head  was 
bent.  And  then,  preposterously,  without  volition, 
without  foreknowledge,  he  was  holding  her  tightly 
in  his  arms;  holding  her  tightly  and  kissing  her 


166  BUNKER  BEAN 

with  a  simple  directness  that  "Napoleon,  Mam 
and  Lover,"  could  never  have  bettered. 

There  is  no  record  of  Napoleon  having  studied 
jiu-jitsu. 

For  one  frenzied  moment  he  was  out  of  himself, 
a  mere  conquering  male,  unthinking,  ruthless, 
exigent.  Then  the  sweet  strange  touch  of  her 
cheek  brought  him  back  to  the  awful  thing  he  had 
done.  His  reason  worked  with  a  lightning 
quickness.  Terrified  by  his  violence  she  would 
wrench  herself  free  and  run  screaming  to  the  house. 
And  then  —  it  was  too  horrible  1 

He  waited,  breathless,  for  retribution.  The 
flapper  did  not  wrench  herself  away.  Slowly  he 
relaxed  the  embrace  that  had  made  a  brute  of  him. 
The  flapper  had  not  screamed.  She  was  facing 
him  now,  breathless  herself.  He  put  her  a  little 
way  from  him;  he  wanted  her  to  see  it  as  he  did. 

The  flapper  drew  a  long  and  rather  catchy 
breath,  then  she  adjusted  a  strand  of  hair  mis 
placed  by  his  violence. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  began,  in  tones  surprisingly 
cool.  "I  knew  it  ever  so  long  ago,  from  the  very 
first  moment!" 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  had  no  words.  His 
utterance  was  formless.  "When  did  you  first 
know?"  she  persisted.  She  was  patting  her  hair 
into  place  with  both  hands. 

He  didn't  know;  he  didn't  know  that  he  knew 
now;  but  recalling  her  speech  he  had  orerheard, 
he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  commit  a  soulful 
perjury. 


BUNKER  BEAN  167 

"From  the  very  first,"  he  lied  glibly.  "Some 
thing  went  over  me  —  just  like  that.  I  can't  tell 
you  how,  but  I  knew!" 

"You  made  me  so  afraid  of  you,"  confessed 
the  flapper. 

"I  never  meant  to,  couldn't  help  it." 

"I'm  horribly  shy,  but  I  knew  it  had  to  be. 
I  felt  powerless." 

"  I  know"  he  sympathized. 

"Our  day  has  come!"  roared  Grandma  from 
out  of  the  gloom.  "We  know  our  rights  1  We've 
broken  glass!  We  break  heads!"  This  was 
followed  by  "Ar!  Ar!  Ar!"  meant  for  sinister 
growls  of  rage.  It  seemed  to  be  the  united  voice 
of  the  mob. 

They  drew  apart,  once  more  self-conscious. 
They  walked  slowly  out,  passed  the  mob  scene, 
which  ignored  them,  and  went  with  awkward 
little  hesitations  up  the  wide  walk  to  the  Breede 
portal.  To  Bean's  suddenly  cooled  eye,  the  vast 
gray  house  towered  above  him  as  a  menace. 
He  had  a  fear  that  it  might  fall  upon  him. 

At  the  entrance  they  stood  discreetly  apart. 
Bean  wondered  what  he  ought  to  say.  His  sense 
of  guilt  was  overwhelming.  But  the  flapper 
seemed  clear-headed  enough. 

"You  leave  it  to  me,"  she  said,  as  if  he  had 
confided  his  perplexity  to  her.  "Leave  it  all  to  me. 
I've  always  managed." 

"Yes,"  said  Bean,  meaning  nothing  what 
ever. 

She    made    little    movements    that    suggested 


168  BUNKER  BEAN 

departure.  She  was  regarding  him  now  with  the 
old  curious  look  that  had  puzzled  him. 

"You're  just  as  perfectly  nice  as  I  knew  you 
were,"  she  announced,  with  an  obvious  pride  in 
this  bit  of  proved  wisdom. 

"  Good-night !" 

From  a  distance  of  five  feet  she  bestowed  the 
little  double-nod  upon  him  and  fled. 

"Good-night!"  he  managed  to  call  after  her. 
Then  he  was  aware  that  he  had  wanted  to  call  her 
"  Chubbins ! "  He  liked  that  name  for  her.  If  he 

could  only  have  said  "Good-night,  Chubbins " 

For  that  matter  he  basely  wanted  again  to  — but 
he  thought  with  shame  that  he  had  done  enough 
for  once.  A  pretty  night's  work,  indeed!  If 
Breede  ever  found  it  out 

When  he  left  with  Breede  in  the  morning, 
she  was  on  the  tennis-court.  Brazenly  she 
engaged  in  light  conversation  across  the  net  with 
no  other  than  Thomas  Hollins,  Junior.  She  did 
not  look  up  as  the  car  passed  the  court,  though  he 
knew  that  she  knew.  Something  in  the  poise  of 
her  head  told  him  that. 

He  didn't  wonder  she  couldn't  face  him  in  the 
light  of  day.  He  smiled  bitterly,  in  scorn  for 
the  betrayed  Tommy. 


IX 

BACK  in  the  lofty  office  that  Saturday  morn 
ing  he  sat  under  the  eye  of  Breede,  in 
outward  seeming  a  neat  and  efficient 
amanuensis.  In  truth  he  was  pluming  himself  as 
a  libertine  of  rare  endowments.  He  openly  and 
shamelessly  wished  he  had  kissed  the  creature 
again.  When  the  next  opportunity  came  she 
wouldn't  get  off  so  lightly,  he  could  tell  her  that. 
It  was  base,  but  it  was  thrilling.  He  would 
abandon  himself.  He  would  take  her  hand  and 
hold  it  the  very  first  time  they  were  alone  together. 
Well  might  she  be  afraid  of  him,  as  she  had  con 
fessed  herself  to  be.  She  little  knew! 

It  was,  though,  pretty  light  conduct  on  her  part. 
It  was  possible  that  he  would  not  see  her  again. 
Perhaps  a  baggage  like  that  would  already  have 
forgotten  him;  would  have  treated  the  thing  as 
trivial,  an  incident  to  laugh  about,  even  to  regale 
her  intimates  with.  Probably  he  had  done  nothing 
more  than  make  a  fool  of  himself  as  usual.  Votes 
for  women,  indeed !  He  thought  they  should  first 
learn  how  to  behave  properly  with  young  men  who 
weren't  expecting  things  of  that  sort. 

"  —  this  'mount'll  then  become  Vailable  f Jr 
purpose  shortenin'  line  an'  reducin'  heavy  grades," 
dictated  the  unconscious  father  of  the  baggage. 

169 


1 70  BUNKER  BEAN 

"I  kissed  that  smug-faced  little  brat  of  yours 
last  night,"  wrote  Bean  immediately  thereafter. 
He  didn't  care.  He  would  put  the  thing  down 
plainly,  right  under  Breede's  nose. 

"With  'creased  freight  earnin's  these  'prove- 
ments  may  be  'spected  t'  pay  f'r  'emselves,"  con 
tinued  Breede. 

"And  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  do  the  same  thing 
over  again,"  Bean  slipped  in  skilfully. 

He  winced  to  think  he  might  some  day  have  a 
daughter  of  his  own  that  would  "carry  on"  just 
so  with  young  men  who  would  be  all  right  if  they 
were  only  let  alone.  He  found  new  comfort  in 
the  reflection  that  his  first-born  would  be  a  boy  — 
to  grow  up  and  be  the  idol  of  a  nation. 

But  a  little  later  he  was  again  thinking  of  her  as 
"Chubbins,"  wishing  he  had  called  her  that,  wish 
ing  she  had  stayed  longer  out  in  the  scented  night 
—  the  wonderful  smoothness  of  her  yielding 
cheek!  Her  little  tricks  of  voice  and  manner  came 
back  to  him,  her  quick  little  patting  of  Grandma's 
back  at  unexpected  moments,  the  tilting  of  her 
head  like  a  listening  bird,  that  inexplicable  look 
as  her  eyes  enveloped  him,  a  tiny  scar  at  her 
temple,  mark  of  an  early  fall  from  her  pony. 

He  became  sentimental  to  a  maudlin  degree. 
She  would  go  on  in  her  shallow  way  of  life,  smash 
ing  windows,  voting,  leading  perfectly  decent 
young  men  to  do  things  they  never  meant  to  do; 
but  he,  the  tender,  the  true,  the  ever-earnest,  he 
would  not  recover  from  the  wound  that  frail  one 
had  so  carelessly  inflicted.  He  would  be  a  changed 


BUNKER  BEAN  171 

man,  with  hair  prematurely  graying  at  the  temples, 
like  Gordon  Dane's,  hiding  his  hurt  under  a  mask 
of  light  cynicism  to  all  but  persons  of  superior 
insight.  The  heartless  quip,  the  mad  jest  on  his 
lips!  And  years  afterward,  a  deeply  serious  and 
very  beautiful  woman  would  divine  his  sorrow  and 
win  him  back  to  his  true  self. 

The  wedding!  The  drive  from  the  church !  The 
carriage  is  halted  by  a  street  crowd.  A  stalwart 
policeman  appears.  He  has  just  arrested  two 
women,  confirmed  window-smashers  —  Grandma, 
the  Demon,  and  the  flapper.  The  flapper  gives 
him  one  long  look,  then  bows  her  head.  She  sees 
all  the  nobility  she  has  missed.  Serve  her  right, 
too! 

Noon  came  and  he  was  about  to  leave  the  office. 
He  was  still  the  changed  man  of  quip  and  jest. 
Desperately  he  jested  with  old  Metzeger,  who  was 
regretfully,  it  seemed,  relinquishing  his  adored 
ledgers  from  Saturday  noon  until  Mondaymorning. 

"Say,  I  want  to  borrow  nineteen  thousand 
eleven  hundred  and  eighty-nine  dollars  and  thirty- 
seven  cents  until  the  sixteenth  at  seven  minutes 
to  eleven." 

Old  Metzeger  repeated  the  numbers  accurately. 
He  looked  wistful,  but  he  knew  it  was  a  jest. 

"Telephone  for  Boston  Bean!"  cried  an  office 
boy,  dryly  affecting  to  be  unconscious  of  his 
wit. 

He  rushed  nervously  for  the  booth.  No  one 
in  the  great  city  had  ever  before  found  occasion 
to  telephone  him.  He  thought  of  Professor 


172  BUNKER  BEAN 

Balthasar.  Balthasar  would  warn  him  to  fly  at 
once;  that  all  was  discovered. 

He  held  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  managed  a 
husky  "Hello!" 

At  first  there  were  many  voices,  mostly  indig 
nant:  "I  want  the  manager!"  "Get  off  the 
line!"  "A  hundred  and  nine  and  three  quarters!" 
"That  you,  Ho  ward?  Say,  this  is "  "Get- 
off  —  that  —  line!"  "Or  Fll  know  the  reason 
why  before  to-morrow  night!"  And  then  from 
Bedlam  pealed  the  voice  of  the  flapper,  silencing 
these  evil  spirits. 

"Hello!  Hello!  This  line  makes  me  perfectly 
furious.  To-morrow  about  three  o'clock  —  you're 
to  give  us  tea  and  things,  some  nice  place  — 
Granny  and  me.  Be  along  in  the  car.  I  remember 
the  number.  Be  there.  Good-bye!" 

There  was  the  rattle  of  a  receiver  being  hung 
up.  But  he  stood  there  not  believing  it  —  tea 

and  car  and  be  there The  receiver  rattled 

again. 

"You  knew  who  I  was,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  right  away,"  muttered  Bean.  Then  he 
brightened.  "I  knew  your  voice  the  moment  I 
heard  it."  The  madness  was  upon  him  and  he 
soared.  "You're  Chubbins!"  He  waited. 

"Cut  out  the  Chubbins  stuff,  Bill,  and  get  off 
there!"  directed  a  coarse  masculine  voice  from  the 
unseen  wire-world. 

He  got  off  there  with  all  possible  quickness. 
His  first  thought  was  that  she  probably  had  not 
heard  the  magnificent  piece  of  daring.  It  was  too 


BUNKER  BEAN  173 

bad.  Probably  he  never  could  do  it  again.  Then 
he  turned  and  discovered  that  he  had  left  the  door 
of  the  telephone  booth  ajar.  Chubbins  might  not 
have  heard  him,  but  Bulger  assuredly  had. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  declaimed  Bulger  in  his  best 
manner.  "Look  whom  we  have  with  us  here 
to-night!  Old  Mr.  George  W.  Fox  Bean,  keeping 
it  all  under  his  hat.  Chubbins,  eh?  Some  name, 
that!  Don't  tell  me  you  thought  it  up  all  by 
yourself,  you  word-painter!  Miss  Chubbsy  Chub- 
bins!  Where's  she  work?" 

Bean  saw  release. 

"Little  manicure  party,"  he  confessed;  "certain 
shop  not  far  from  here.  Think  I'm  going  to  put 
you  wise?" 

Bulger  was  pleased  at  the  implication. 

"Ain't  got  a  friend,  has  she?" 

"No,"  said  Bean.  "Never  did  have  one.  Some 
class,  too,"  he  added  with  a  leer  that  won  Bulger's 
complete  respect.  He  breathed  freely  again  and 
was  humming,  "Love  Me  and  the  World  Is  Mine," 
as  they  separated. 

But  when  he  was  alone  the  song  died.  The 
thing  was  getting  serious.  And  she  was  so  assured. 
Telling  him  to  be  there  as  if  she  were  Breede  him 
self.  How  did  she  know  he  had  time  for  all  that 
tea  and  Grandma  nonsense?  Suppose  he  had  had 
another  engagement.  She  hadn't  given  him  time 
to  say.  Hadn't  asked  him;  just  told  him.  Well, 
it  showed  one  thing.  It  showed  that  Bunker  Bean 
could  bring  women  to  his  feet. 

His  afternoon  recreation,  there  being  no  base- 


174  BUNKER  BEAN 

ball,  was  to  lead  Nap  triumphantly  through 
Central  Park  to  be  seen  of  an  envious  throng.  He 
affected  a  lordly  unconsciousness  of  the  homage 
Nap  received.  He  left  adoring  women  in  his 
wake  and  covetous  men;  and  children  demanded 
bluntly  if  he  would  sell  that  dog;  or  if  he  wouldn't 
sell  him  would  he  give  him  away,  because  they 
.Wanted  him. 

Surfeited  with  this  easily  won  attention,  he  sat 
by  the  driveway  to  watch  the  endless  parade  of 
carriage  folk.  His  eye  was  for  the  women  in  those 
shining  equipages.  Young  or  old,  they  were  to  him 
newly  exciting.  His  attitude  was  the  rather  scorn 
ful  one  of  a  conqueror  whose  victories  have  cost  him 
too  little.  They  had  been  mysteries  to  him,  but 
now,  all  in  a  day,  he  understood  women.  They 
were  vulnerable  things,  and  men  were  their  masters. 
Votes,  indeed ! 

His  own  power  over  them  was  abundantly 
proved.  Any  of  them  passing  heedlessly  there 
would,  under  the  right  conditions,  confess  it.  Let 
him  be  called  to  their  notice  and  they'd  be  follow 
ing  him  around,  forgetting  plighted  vows,  getting 
him  into  places  screened  with  vines  and  letting 
themselves  be  led  on;  telephoning  him  to  give  them 
and  Grandma  tea  and  things  of  a  Sunday  in  some 
nice  place  —  hanging  on  his  words.  Of  course  it 
had  always  been  that  way,  only  he  had  never 
known  it.  Looking  back  over  his  barren  past  he 
surveyed  minor  incidents  with  new  eyes.  There 
was  that  girl  with  the  pretty  hair  in  the  business 
college,  who  always  smiled  in  the  quick,  confidential 


BUNKER  BEAN  175 

way  at  him.  Maybe  she  wouldn't  have  been  a 
talker! 

And  how  far  was  this  present  affair  going? 
Pretty  far  already:  clandestine  meetings  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  Still,  he  couldn't  help  being  a  man, 
could  he?  And  Tommy  Hollins,  poor  dupe! 

In  the  steam-heated  apartment  It  had  been  locked 
in  a  closet,  which  in  an  upright  position  It  fitted 
nicely.  He  did  not  open  the  door  that  night.  He 
felt  that  he  was  venturing  into  ways  that  the  wise 
and  good  king  would  not  approve.  He  could  not 
face  the  thing  while  guilt  was  in  his  heart.  A 
woman  had  come  between  them. 


At  three  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  he  lounged 
carelessly  against  the  basement  railing  of  the 
steam-heated  apartment.  With  Nap  on  a  leash 
he  was  keenly  aware  that  he  was  "some  class." 
He  was  arrayed  in  the  new  suit  of  a  quiet  check. 
The  cravat  with  the  red  stripe  shimmered  in  the 
sunlight.  He  had  a  new  straw  hat  with  a  coloured 
band,  bought  the  day  before  at  a  shop  advertising 
"Snappy  Togs  for  Dressy  Men."  He  lightly 
twirled  a  yellow  stick  and  carried  yellow  gloves 
in  one  hand.  He  was  almost  the  advanced 
dresser,  dignified  but  unquestionably  a  bit  differ 
ent.  He  seemed  to  be  one  who  has  tamed  the 
world  to  his  ends;  but,  though  he  stood  erect, 
expanded  his  chest  and  drew  in  his  waist,  as  in 
stinctively  do  all  those  who  wear  America's  greatest 
eighteen-dollar  suit,  he  was  nevertheless  wondering 


176  BUNKER  BEAN 

with  a  lively  apprehension  just  what  was  going 
to  be  done  with  him.  This  life  of  "affairs"  was 
making  him  uncomfortable. 

Taking  Nap  along,  he  somehow  felt,  was  a  wise 
precaution.  He  didn't  know  what  mad  thing  you 
might  expect  of  Grandma,  the  Demon,  but  surely 
nothing  very  discreditable  could  occur  in  the 
presence  of  that  innocent  dog.  And  he  would  play 
the  waiting  game;  make  'em  show  their  hands. 

At  twenty  minutes  after  three  he  wondered  if 
he  mightn't  reasonably  disappear.  He  would 
walk  in  the  park  and  say  afterward  —  if  there 
should  be  an  afterward  —  that  he  had  given  them 
up.  An  easy  way  out.  He  would  do  it.  Twenty 
minutes  more  passed  and  he  still  meant  to  do  it, 
knowing  he  wouldn't. 

Then  came  the  blare  of  a  motor  horn  and 
Breede's  biggest  and  blackest  car  descended  upon 
him,  stopping  neatly  at  the  curb. 

He  retained  his  calm,  nonchalantly  doffing  the 
new  straw  hat. 

"Just  strolling  off,"  he  said;  "given  you  up." 

"Pops  wanted  to  come,"  explained  the  flapper. 
"I  had  a  perfectly  annoying  time  not  letting  him. 
What  a  darling  child  of  a  dog!  Does  he  want  to  — 
well,  he  shall!" 

And  Nap  did  at  once.  He  seemed  in  the  flapper 
to  be  greeting  an  old  friend.  He  interrogated  his 
lawful  owner  from  the  flapper's  embrace,  then 
reached  up  to  implant  a  moist  salute  upon  the 
ear  of  Grandma,  who  at  once  removed  herself  from 
his  immediate  presence. 


BUNKER  BEAN  177 

"Sit  there  yourself,"  she  commanded  Bean. 
And  Bean  sat  there  beside  the  flapper,  with  Nap 
between  them.  The  car  moved  gently  on  under 
the  gaze  of  the  impressed  Cassidy,  who  had  clat 
tered  up  the  iron  stairway.  Cassidy's  gaze 
seemed  to  say,  "All  right,  me  lad,  but  you  want 
t'  look  out  f  r  that  sort.  I  know  th'  kind  well!" 

The  car  was  moving  swiftly  now,  heading  for 
the  north  and  the  open. 

"They  cut  us  off  yesterday,"  said  the  flapper. 
"I  know  I  shall  simply  make  a  lot  of  trouble  for 
that  operator  some  day." 

He  wondered  if  she  had  heard  that  mad  "Chub- 
bins  I "  But  now  the  flapper  smiled  upon  him  with 
a  wondrous  content,  and  he  could  say  nothing. 
Instead  of  talking  he  stroked  the  head  of  Nap,  who 
was  panting  with  the  excitement  of  this  celestial 
adventure. 

"I  like  you  in  that,"  confided  the  flapper  with 
an  approving  glance.  He  wondered  if  she  meant 
the  hat,  the  cravat  or  America's  very  best  suit 
for  the  money. 

"I  like  you  in  that,"  he  retorted  with  equal 
vagueness,  at  last  stung  to  speech. 

"Oh,  this!"  explained  the  flapper  in  pleased 
deprecation.  "It's  just  a  little  old  rag.  What's 
his  darling  name?" 

"Eh?  Name?  Napoleon,  Man  and  —  I  mean 
Napoleon.  I  call  him  Nap,"  he  said  shortly, 
feeling  himself  in  chameleon-like  sympathy  with 
the  cravat. 

Grandma,  on  the  seat  in  front  of  them,  stared 


I78  BUNKER  BEAN 

silently  ahead,  but  there  was  something  ominous 
in  her  rigidity.     She  had  the  air  of  a  captor. 

Once  when  his  hand  was  on  Nap  the  flapper 
brazenly  patted  it.  He  pretended  not  to  notice. 

"Everything's  all  right,"  she  said. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  believing  neverthe 
less  that  everything  was  all  wrong. 

They  had  come  swiftly  to  the  country  and  now 
swept  along  a  wide  highway  that  narrowed  in  per 
spective  far  and  straight  ahead  of  them.  He 
watched  the  road,  grateful  for  the  slight  hypnotic 
effect  of  its  lines  running  toward  him.  He  must 
play  the  waiting  game. 

"Here's  the  inn,"  said  the  flapper.  They  turned 
into  a  big  green  yard  and  drew  up  at  the  steps  of 
a  rambling  old  house  begirt  with  wide  piazzas  on 
which  tables  were  set.  This  would  be  the  nice 
place  where  he  was  to  give  them  tea  and  things. 
They  descended  from  the  car,  and  he  was  aware 
that  they  pleasantly  drew  the  attention  of  many 
people  who  were  already  there  having  tea  and 
things:  the  big  car  and  Grandma  and  the  flapper 
in  her  little  old  rag  and  Nap  still  panting  ecstati 
cally,  and,  not  least,  himself  in  dignified  and  a 
little  bit  different  apparel,  lightly  grasping  the 
yellow  stick  and  the  quite  as  yellow  gloves.  It 
was  horribly  open  and  conspicuous,  he  felt;  still, 
getting  out  of  a  car  like  that  —  and  the  flapper's 
little  old  rag  was  something  that  had  to  be  looked 
at  —  he  was  drunk  with  it.  Following  a  waiter 
to  a  table  he  felt  that  the  floor  was  not  meeting 
his  feet. 


BUNKER  BEAN  179 

They  were  seated !  The  shocking  affair  was  on. 
The  waiter  inclined  a  deferential  ear  to  the  gentle 
man  from  the  large  and  costly  car. 

"Tea  and  things,"  said  the  gentleman  with  a 
very  bored  manner  indeed,  and  turned  to  rebuke 
the  rare  and  costly  dog  with  harsh  words  for  his 
excessive  emotion  at  the  prospect  of  food. 

The  waiter  manifested  delight  at  the  command; 
one  could  not  help  seeing  that  he  considered  it 
precisely  the  right  one.  He  moved  importantly 
off.  The  three  regarded  each  other  a  moment. 
Bean  played  the  waiting  game.  The  flapper 
played  her  ancient  game  of  looking  at  him  in  that 
curious  way.  Grandma  looked  at  them  both, 
then  meaningly  at  Bean.  She  spoke. 

"I'll  say  very  frankly  that  I  wouldn't  marry  you 
myself." 

He  blinked,  then  he  pretended  to  search  with 
his  eyes  for  their  vanished  waiter.  But  it  was 
no  good.  He  had  to  face  the  Demon,  helpless. 

"But  that's  nothing  to  your  discredit,  and  it 
isn't  a  question  of  me,"  she  added  dispassion 
ately. 

His  inner  voice  chanted,  "Play  the  waiting 
game;  play  the  waiting  game." 

"Every  woman  with  a  head  on  her  knows  what 
she  wants  when  she  sees  it.  And  nowadays, 
thanks  to  the  efforts  of  a  few  noble  leaders 
of  our  sex,  she  has  the  right  and  the  courage 
to  take  it.  I  haven't  wasted  any  time  talking 
to  her."  She  indicated  the  flapper,  who  still  fixed 
the  implacable  look  on  Bean. 


i8o  BUNKER  BEAN 

"If  she  doesn't  know  at  nineteen,  she  never 
would " 

"We've  settled  all  that,'9  said  the  flapper  loftily. 
"Haven't  we?" 

Bean  nodded.  All  at  once  that  look  of  the 
flapper's  began  to  be  intelligible.  He  could 
almost  read  it. 

"I  suppose  you  expect  me  to  talk  a  lot  of  that 
stuff  about  marriage  being  a  serious  business," 
continued  the  Demon  evenly.  "But  I  shan't. 
Marriage  isn't  half  as  serious  as  living  alone  is. 
It's  what  we  were  made  for  in  my  time,  and  your 
time  isn't  a  bit  different,  young  man." 

She  raised  an  argumentative  finger  toward  him, 
as  if  he  had  sought  to  contest  this. 

"I've  always "  he  began  weakly.  But  the 

Demon  would  have  none  of  it. 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  what  you've  'always!'  I 
know  well  enough  what  you've  'always.'  That 
isn't  the  point." 

What  did  the  woman  think  she  was  talking 
about?  Couldn't  he  say  a  word  to  her  without 
being  snapped  at? 

"What  is  the  point?"  he  ventured.  It  was  still 
the  waiting  game,  and  it  showed  he  wasn't  afraid 
of  her. 

"The  point  is " 

And  in  that  instant  Bean  read  the  flapper's 
look,  the  look  she  had  puzzled  him  with  from  their 
first  meeting.  It  was  like  finally  understanding 
an  oft-heard  phrase  in  a  foreign  tongue.  How 
luminous  that  look  was  now!  The  simple  look  of 


If 


In  that  instant  Bean  read  the  flapper's  look,  the  look  she  had  puzzled  him 
with  from  their  first  meeting 


BUNKER  BEAN  181 

proud  and  assured  and  most  determined  ownership ! 
It  lay  quietly  on  her  face  now  as  always.  It  was 
the  look  he  must  have  bestowed  on  his  shell  the 
first  time  he  saw  it.  Ownership ! 

" the  point  is,"  the  Demon  was  saying 

terribly,  "I  don't  believe  in  long  engagements." 

He  had  once  been  persuaded,  yielding  out  of 
spineless  bravado,  to  descend  the  shaft  of  a  mine 
in  a  huge  bucket.  The  sensations  of  that  plunge 
were  now  reproduced.  He  looked  up  to  the  far 
circle  of  light  that  ever  diminished  as  he  went  down 
and  down. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  them  either,"  said  the  flapper 
firmly.  "They're  perfectly  no  good." 

"I  never  did  believe  in  'em,"  he  heard  himself 
saying.  And  added  with  firmness  equal  to  the 
flapper's,  "Silly!"  He  was  wondering  if  they 
would  ever  pull  him  to  the  surface  again;  if  the 
rope  would  break. 

"Just  what  I  think,"  chanted  the  flapper. 
"Silly,  and  then  some!" 

"Then  some!"  repeated  the  male  being  in  help 
less,  terrified  corroboration. 

"Won't  he  ever  come?"  queried  the  Demon. 
"Oh,  here  he  is!" 

The  waiter  was  neatly  removing  tea  and  things 
from  the  tray.  Bean  recalled  how  on  that  other 
occasion  he  had  fearfully  believed  the  earth  would 
close  upon  him,  how  hope  revived  as  he  was  pre 
cariously  drawn  upward,  and  what  a  novel  view 
the  earth's  fair  surface  presented  when  he  again 
stood  firmly  upon  it. 


1 82  BUNKER  BEAN 

It  was  the  waiter  who  raised  him  from  this  other 
abyss  where  he  had  been  like  to  perish,  the  waiter 
and  the  things,  including  tea:  plates,  forks,  nap 
kins,  cups  and  saucers,  tea  and  hot  water,  jam, 
biscuit,  toast.  There  was  something  particularly 
reassuring  about  that  plate  of  nicely  matched 
triangles  of  buttered  toast.  It  spoke  of  a  sane 
and  orderly  world  where  you  were  never  taken  off 
your  feet. 

"How  many  lumps?"  demanded  the  pouring 
flapper. 

"Just  as  you  like;  Pm  not  fussy,"  he  answered. 

This  was  untrue.  His  preference  in  the  matter 
was  decided,  but  he  could  not  remember  what  it 
was.  Afterward  he  knew  that  he  did  not  take 
sugar  in  his  tea,  but  the  flapper  had  sweetened 
it  with  three  lumps.  Grandma  again  addressed 
him,  engaging  his  difficult  attention  with  a  bran 
dished  fragment  of  toast. 

"I  can't  imagine'how  you  were  ever  mad  enough 
to  think  of  it,"  she  said,  "  but  you  were.  I  give  you 
credit  for  that.  And  just  let  me  tell  you  that 
you've  won  a  treasure.  Of  course,  I  don't  say 
you  won't  find  her  difficult  now  and  then,  but  you 
mustn't  be  too  overbearing;  give  in  a  bit  now  and 
then;  't  won't  hurt  you.  Remember  she's  got  a 
will  of  her  own,  as  well  as  you  have.  Don't  try 
to  ride  rough-shod " 

"Oh,  we've  settled  all  that"  broke  in  the  flapper. 
"Haven't  we?" 

"We've  settled  all  that,"  said  Bean,  grateful 
for  the  solid  feel  of  a  cup  in  his  fingers. 


BUNKER  BEAN  183 

"Don't  be  too  domineering,  that's  all,"  warned 
the  Demon.  "She  wouldn't  put  up  with  it." 

l'~T  understand  all  that"  insisted  Bean,  resolutely 
seizing  a  fork  for  which  he  had  no  use.  "I  can 
look  ahead!" 

He  began  hurriedly  to  eat  toast,  hoping  it  would 
seem  that  he  had  more  to  say  but  was  too  hungry 
to  say  it. 

"I  know  you"  persisted  the  Demon.  "Brow 
beating,  bound  to  have  your  own  way,  and,  after 
all,  she's  nothing  but  a  child." 

"I'll  want  him  to  have  his  own  way,  "declared  the 
child.  " I'll  see  that  he  just  perfectly  gets  it,  tool" 

"Give  and  take,  that's  my  motto, ' '  he  muttered, 
wondering  if  more  toast  would  choke  him. 

"Be  a  row  back  there,  of  course,"  said  Grandma, 
"but  Julia's  going  to  marry  off  the  other  child 
after  her  own  heart,  and  it's  only  right  for  me  to 
have  a  little  say  about  this  one.  You're  a  better 
man  than  he  is.  You  have  a  good  situation  and 
he's  just  a  waster;  couldn't  buy  his  own  cigarettes 
if  he  had  to  work  for  the  money,  say  nothing  of 
his  gloves  and  ties.  Born  to  riches,  born  to  folly, 
say  I.  Still,  Julia  will  fuss  just  about  so  much. 
Of  course,  Jim " 

"Oh,  poor  old  Pops!"  The  flapper  gracefully 
destroyed  him  as  a  factor  in  the  problem. 

Bean  was  feeding  toast  to  Nap,  who  didn't 
choke. 

"She  always  has  to  come  around  though  when 
the  girl  makes  up  her  mind.  I  haven't  had  that 
child  in  my  charge  for  nothing." 


1 84  BUNKER  BEAN 

"  I  have  a  right  to  choose  the "  The  flapper 

broke  her  speech  with  tea.  "I  have  the  right," 
she  concluded  defiantly. 

Bean  shuddered.  He  recalled  the  terrific  re 
mainder  of  that  speech. 

"I  thought  we  better  have  this  little  talk,"  said 
Grandma,  "and  get  everything  understood." 

"  'S  the  only  way  to  do,"  said  Bean,  wrinkling 
his  forehead,  "have  everything  clear." 

"I  had  it  all  perfectly  planned  out  long  ago," 
said  the  flapper.  "I  don't  want  a  large  place." 

"  Lots  of  trouble,"  conceded  Bean.  "  Something 
always  coming  up,"  he  added  knowingly. 

"Nice  yard,"  said  the  flapper,  "plenty  of  room 
for  flowers  and  the  tennis  court,  and  I'll  do  the 
marketing  when  I  motor  in  for  you.  They  won't 
let  me  do  it  back  there,"  she  concluded  with  some 
acrimony;  "and  they  get  good  and  cheated  and 
I'm  perfectly  glad  of  it.  Eighteen  cents  a  head  for 
lettuce !  I  saw  that  very  thing  on  a  tag  yesterday ! " 

"Rob  you  right  and  left,"  mumbled  Bean.  "All 
you  can  expect." 

"Just  leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  the  flapper  with 
four  of  her  double  nods.  "They'll  soon  learn 
better." 

"Hardly  seems  as  if  it  could  all  be  true,"  ven 
tured  Bean  in  a  genial  effort  at  sanity. 

"It's  just  perfectly  true  and  true,"  insisted  the 
flapper.  "I  knew  it  all  the  time."  She  placed 
the  old  relentless  gaze  upon  him.  He  was  hers. 

"The  beautiful,  blind  wants  of  youth!"  said 
the  Demon,  who  had  been  silent  a  long  time,  for 


BUNKER  BEAN  185 

her.  "I  remember "  But  it  seemed  to  come 

to  nothing.  She  was  silent  again. 

He  paid  the  waiter. 

"It  was  just  as  well  to  have  this  little  talk," 
murmured  Grandma  as  they  arose. 

The  car  throbbed  before  the  steps.  They  were 
in  and  away.  A  reviving  breeze  swept  them  as  the 
car  gained  speed.  At  least  it  partially  revived  one 
of  them. 

In  the  back  seat  he  presently  found  a  hand  in 
his,  but  his  own  hand  seemed  no  longer  a  part 
of  him.  He  thought  the  serenity  of  the  flapper  was 
remarkable.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  nothing 
wonderful  had  happened.  There  was  something 
awful  about  that  calm. 


The  car  stopped  before  the  steam-heated  apart 
ment.  There  were  but  brief  adieus  before  it  went 
on.  Cassidy  sat  at  the  head  of  his  basement 
stairs  with  a  Sunday  paper.  He  was  heading  an 
article  entitled,  "My  Secrets  of  Beauty,"  pro 
fusely  illustrated. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  one  o'  the  things  did  ye  give  it 
t'  me,"  said  Cassidy.  "Runnin'  inta  telegrapht 
poles  an'  trolley  cairs." 

"Couple  of  friends  of  mine  took  me  out  for  a 
little  spin,"  said  Bean,  clutching  his  stick,  his 
gloves  and  Nap's  leash. 

He  seemed  to  be  still  spinning. 

In  his  own  place  he  went  quickly  to  Its  closet, 
pulled  open  the  door  and  shouted  aloud: 


186  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that?" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  startling  as  he 
caught  the  look  of  the  serene  Ram-tah.  He  softly 
closed  the  door  upon  what  his  living  self  had  been. 
He  was  too  violent. 

But  he  could  not  be  cool  all  at  once.  He  tossed 
hat,  stick,  and  gloves  aside  and  paced  the  room. 

Engaged  to  be  married!  That  was  all  any  one 
could  make  of  it.  All  the  agreeable  iniquity  had 
been  extracted  from  the  affair.  It  was  fearsomely 
respectable.  And  it  was  deadly  serious.  How 
had  he  got  into  it?  And  yet  he  had  always  felt 
something  ominous  in  that  girl's  look. 

And  there  would  be  a  row  "back  there."  Julia 
would  make  the  row.  And  Jim.  They  might 
think  Jim  wouldn't  help  in  the  row,  but  he  knew 
better.  Jim  was  old  Jim  Breede,  who  would  of 
course  take  Bunker  Bean's  head  off.  He  had 
been  a  fool  all  the  time.  In  the  car  he  had 
strained  himself  to  the  point  of  mentioning  the 
Hollins  boy.  The  flapper  had  laughed  unaffect 
edly.  Tommy  Hollins  was  a  perfectly  darling  boy, 
a  good  sport  and  all  that,  but  he  couldn't  be  any 
thing  important  to  the  flapper  if  he  were  the  per 
fectly  last  man  on  earth.  How  any  one  could 
ever  have  thought  such  an  absurd  thing  was  be 
yond  the  flapper,  for  one. 

And  she  didn't  want  a  large  place:  flowers  and 
a  tennis  court,  and  she'd  do  the  marketing  herself 
when  she  motored  in  for  him.  Moreover,  he  was 
.not  to  be  brutally  domineering.  He  was  to  curb 
that  tendency  in  himself,  at  least  now  and  then, 


BUNKER  BEAN  187 

and  let  her  have  an  opinion  or  two  of  her  own.  She 
was  nothing  but  a  child,  after  all;  he  mustn't  be 
harsh  with  her. 

He  was  weak  before  it.  Once  more  he  opened 
the  closet  door,  feeling  the  need  for  new  strength. 
A  long  time  he  looked  into  the  still  face.  He  was 
a  king.  Was  it  strange  that  a  woman  had  fallen 
before  him? 

He  reduced  the  event  to  its  rudiments.  He 
was  the  affianced  husband  of  Breeders  youngest 
daughter,  who  didn't  believe  in  long  engagements. 

The  thing  was  incredible,  even  as  he  faced  Ram- 
tah. 

How  had  he  ever  done  it? 

"Gee!"  he  muttered,  "how'd  I  ever  have  the 
nerve  to  do  it!" 

Ram-tah's  sleeping  face  remained  still.  If  the 
wise  and  good  king  knew  the  answer  he  gave  no 
sign. 


WHERE  maint'nance  f  r  both  roadway  an' 
'quipment  is  clearly  surcharged,"  Breede 
was  exploding, "  extent  of  excessof  main 
tenance  over  normal  'quirements  cannot  be  taken 
as  present  earnin'  power,  an'  this'll  haf  t'  be  under 
stood  before  nex'  meetin'  d'r'ectors " 

"No  need  of  you  making  any  fuss,"  wrote  Bean. 
"  Let  Julia  do  that.  I'm  as  good  a  man  as  anybody 
if  you  come  right  down  to  it." 

" these  prior-lien  bon's  an'  receiver's  stiff- 
cuts  mus'  natchally  come  ahead  of  firs '-mortgage 
bon's "  continued  Breede. 

u  Wouldn't  care  if  she  told  you  right  now  over 
that  telephone,"  wrote  Bean.  "You  wouldn't 
dare  touch  me,  and  you  know  it." 

Later  he  wrote  "Poor  old  Pops!"  contemptu 
ously,  and  put  an  evil  sneer  upon  Breede's  removed 
cuffs. 

At  the  same  time  he  wished  that  the  flapper  and 
Grandma  hadn't  been  so  set  against  long  engage 
ments.  And  how  long  had  they  meant?  One 
day,  a  week,  a  month  ?  Would  they  have  it  done 
the  next  time  they  took  him  out  in  that  car  for 
tea  and  things?  They  were  capable  of  it.  Why 
couldn't  they  be  reasonable  and  let  things  stay 
quiet  for  a  while? 

188 


BUNKER  BEAN  189 

And  how  about  that  small  place  with  flowers 
and  a  tennis  court  and  a  motor  to  go  marketing 
in?  Did  they  believe  he  was  made  of  money? 
About  all  he  could  do  was  to  provide  a  place  big 
enough  for  a  growing  dog.  And  Breede,  of  course, 
would  cast  the  girl  off  penniless,  as  they  always  did, 
telling  her  never  to  darken  his  doors  again.  And 
he'd  have  to  find  a  new  job.  Breede  wouldn't 
think  of  keeping  on  the  scoundrel  who  had  lured 
his  child  away. 

Still,  the  flapper's  mind  was  set  on  an  early 
marriage,  and,  for  this  once,  at  least,  he  would  let 
her  have  her  own  way.  No  good  being  brutal  at 
the  start.  They  would  get  along;  scrimp  and  save; 
even  move  to  Brooklyn,  maybe.  He  looked  into 
the  far  years  and  saw  his  son,  greatest  of  all  left- 
handed  pitchers,  shutting  out  Pittsburgh  without 
a  single  hit.  A  very  aged  couple  in  the  grandstand 
tried  to  claim  relationship  with  his  pitching  marvel, 
saying  he  was  their  grandson,  but  few  of  the  yelling 
enthusiasts  would  credit  it.  One  of  the  crowd 
would  later  question  the  phenomenon's  father, 
who  was  none  other  than  the  owner  of  the  home 
team,  and  he  would  say,  "Oh,  yes,  quite  true,  but 
there  has  been  no  communication  between  the 
two  families  for  more  than  twenty  years." 

There  would  now  follow  from  the  abject  grand 
parents  timid  overtures  for  a  reconciliation,  they 
having  at  last  seen  their  mistake.  These  overtures 
met  with  a  varying  response.  Sometimes  he  was 
adamant  and  told  them  no;  they  had  made  their 
bed  twenty  years  before,  and  now  they  could  lie 


190  BUNKER  BEAN 

on  it.  Again,  he  would  relent,  allowing  them  to 
come  to  the  house  and  associate  with  their  superb 
descendant  once  every  week.  He  didn't  want  to 
be  too  hard  on  them. 

And  he  was  not  penniless.  He  would  continue 
in  the  unexciting  express  business  for  a  while,  until 
he  had  amassed  enough  to  buy  the  ball-team. 

Out  at  his  typewriter,  turning  off  Breede's 
letters,  his  mind  kept  reverting  to  those  nicely 
printed  stock  certificates  Aunt  Clara  had  sent  to 
him,  five  of  them  for  ten  shares  each,  his  own  name 
written  on  them.  Of  course  there  were  hundreds 
of  shares  at  the  brokers',  but  those  seemed  not  to 
mean  so  much.  And  they  had  gone  down  a  point, 
whatever  that  was,  since  his  purchase.  The 
broker  had  explained  that  this  was  because  of  an 
unexpectedly  low  dividend,  3  per  cent.  It  showed 
bad  management.  All  the  more  reason  for  getting 
a  new  man  on  the  Board  —  a  lot  of  old  fossils ! 

He  recalled  the  indignant-looking  old  gentleman 
who  was  so  excessively  well  dressed.  He  wore 
choice  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses  tethered  by  a  black 
silk  ribbon.  They  were  intensely  respectable  things 
when  adjusted  to  the  nose,  but  he  knew  he  should 
clash  with  that  old  party  the  moment  he  got  on  the 
Board.  He  would  find  him  to  be  one  of  the  sort 
that  is  always  looking  for  trouble. 

He  wondered  if  he  might  not  himself  some  day 
have  sufficient  excuse  for  wearing  glasses  like 
those,  at  the  end  of  a  silk  ribbon.  He  thought  they 
set  off  the  face.  And  the  old  gentleman's  white 
parted  beard  flowed  down  upon  a  waistcoat  he 


BUNKER  BEAN  191 

wouldn't  mind  owning:  black  silk  set  with  tiny- 
white  stars,  a  good  background  for  a  small  gold 
chain.  There  would  be  a  bunch  of  important 
keys  on  one  end  of  that  chain.  Bean  had  yearned 
to  wear  one  of  those  key-chains,  but  he  had  never 
had  more  than  a  trunk-key  and  a  latch-key,  and  it 
would  look  silly  to  pull  those  out  on  a  chain  before 
people;  they'd  begin  to  make  fun  of  you! 

He  worked  on,  narrowly  omitting  to  have  Breede 
inform  the  vice-president  of  an  important  trunk- 
line  that  it  wouldn't  hurt  him  any  to  have  those 
trousers  pressed  once  in  a  while;  also  that  plenty 
of  barbers  would  be  willing  to  cut  his  hair. 

Bulger  condescendingly  wrote  at  his  own  type 
writer,  as  if  he  were  the  son  of  a  millionaire  pre 
tending  to  work  up  from  the  bottom.  Old  Metze- 
ger  was  deep  in  a  dream  of  odd  numerals.  The 
half-dozen  other  clerks  wrought  at  tasks  not  too- 
absorbing  to  prevent  frequent  glances  at  the  clock 
on  the  wall. 

Tully,  the  chief  clerk,  marred  the  familiarity 
of  the  hour  by  approaching  Bean's  desk.  He 
walked  lightly.  Tully  always  walked  as  if  he 
felt  himself  to  be  on  dangerously  thin  ice.  He 
might  get  safely  across;  then  again  he  mightn't. 
He  leaned  confidentially  on  the  back  of  Bean's 
chaii  and  Bean  looked  up  and  through  the  lenses 
that  so  alarmingly  magnified  Tully's  eyes.  Tully 
twitched  the  point  of  his  blond  beard  with  thumb 
and  finger  as  if  to  reassure  himself  of  its  presence. 

"By  the  way,  Bean,  I  notice  some  fifty  shares 
of  Federal  Express  stock  in  your  name.  Now  it  is 


192  BUNKER  BEAN 

not  impossible  that  the  office  would  be  willing  to 
take  them  over  for  you." 

That  was  Tully's  way.  He  was  bound  to  say 
"some"  fifty  shares  instead  of  fifty,  and  of  any 
thing  he  knew  to  be  true  he  could  only  aver  "it 
is  not  impossible."  Of  a  certain  familiar  enough 
event  in  the  natural  world  he  would  have  declared, 
"The  sun  sets  not  infrequently  in  the  west." 

Bean  was  for  the  moment  uncertain  of  Tully's 
meaning. 

"Shares,"  he  said.     "Right  there  in  my  desk." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so!"  said  Tully.     "Pm  not 

wholly  uncertain,  you  know  —  this  is  between  us 

—  that  I  couldn't  place  them  for  you.     I  may 

say   the   office   would   not  find   even   those   few 

shares  unwelcome." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
Bean.  "You  see,  I  had  a  kind  of  an  idea " 

"I  think  I  may  say  they  would  take  it  not  un 
kindly,"  said  Tully. 

" of  holding  on  to  them,"  concluded  Bean. 

"Your  letting  them  go  for  a  fair  price  might 
not  inconceivably  react  to  your  advantage,"  sug 
gested  the  luminous  Tully. 

"It  is  not  impossible  that  I  shall  want  them 
myself,"  responded  Bean,  unconsciously  adopting 
the  Tully  indirection. 

"The  office  is  not  unwilling "  began  Tully. 

"I'll  keep  'em  a  while,"  said  Bean.  "I  have 
a  sort  of  plan." 

"I  should  not  like  to  think  it  possible " 

Bean  was  tired  of  Tully.     What  was  the  man 


BUNKER  BEAN  193 

trying  to  get  at,  anyway?  He  didn't  know;  but 
he  would  shut  him  off.  His  mind  leaped  with  an 
inspiration. 

"I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence," 
said  Bean. 

He  was  at  once  proud  of  the  snappy  way  the 
words  came  out.  Breede,  he  thought,  could  hardly 
have  been  snappier.  He  glared  at  Tully,  who 
looked  shocked,  hurt,  and  disgusted.  Tully  sighed 
and  walked  back  to  his  own  desk,  as  if  the  ice 
cracked  beneath  his  small  feet  at  every  step. 

Bean  resumed  his  work,  with  the  air  of  one  for 
getting  a  past  annoyance.  But  he  was  not  for 
getting.  He  might  let  them  have  the  stock;  he 
had  never  thought  any  too  well  of  that  express 
directorship;  but  let  them  send  some  one  that 
could  talk  straight.  He  didn't  care  if  he  had  been 
short  with  Tully.  He  was  going  to  lose  his  job 
anyway,  the  day  after  that  wedding,  if  not  before. 

He  wrote  many  of  Breede's  letters,  and  was 
again  interrupted,  this  time  by  Markham,  Breede's 
confidential  secretary.  Markham's  approach  to 
Bean  was  emphatically  footed,  as  that  of  a  man 
unable  to  imagine  ice  being  thin  under  his  feet. 
He  was  bluff  and  open,  where  Tully  lurked  behind 
his  "not  impossibles."  He  was  even  jovial  now. 
He  smiled  down  at  Bean. 

"By  the  way,  Bean,  some  one  was  telling  me 
you  have  some  Federal  Express." 

"Have  the  shares  right  there  in  my  desk,"  ad 
mitted  Bean,  wonderingly.  He  was  suspicious  all 
at  once.  Tully  and  Markham  had  both  opened 


I94  BUNKER  BEAN 

on  him  with  "By  the  way."  He  had  always  felt 
it  a  shrewd  thing  to  suspect  people  who  began 
with  "By  the  way." 

"Ah,  yes,  fifty  shares,  I  believe."  Markham 
smiled  again,  but  seemed  to  try  not  to  smile.  He 
apparently  considered  it  a  rare  jest  that  Bean 
should  own  any  shares  of  anything;  a  thing  for 
smiles  even  though  one  must  humour  the  fellow. 

"Fifty  shares!  Well,  well,  that's  good!  Now 
the  fact  is,  old  man,  I  can  place  those  for  you  this 
afternoon.  Some  of  the  Federal  people  going  to 
meet  informally  here,  and  they  happen  to  want  a 
little  block  or  two  of  the  stuff,  for  voting  purposes> 
you  know.  Not  that  it's  worth  anything.  How'd 
you  happen  to  get  down  on  such  a  dead  one?" 

"Well,  you  know,  I  had  a  sort  of  a  plan  about 
that  stock.  I  don't  know " 

"Of  course  I  can't  get  you  what  you  paid  for 
it,"  continued  the  affable  Markham,  "because  it's 
poor  stuff,  but  maybe  they'll  stand  a  point  or  two 
above  to-day's  quotations.  Just  let  me  have  them 
and  I'll  get  your  check  made  out  right  away;  you 
can  go  out  of  here  with  more  money  to-night  than 
any  one  else  will."  Markham  was  prattling  on 
amiably,  still  trying  not  to  be  overcome  by  the 
funny  joke  of  Bean  owning  things. 

"I  don't  want  to  sell,"  declared  Bean.  There 
had  been  a  moment's  hesitation,  but  that  opening,. 
"By  the  way,"  of  Markham's  had  finally  decided 
him.  You  couldn't  tell  anything  about  such  a 
man. 

"Oh,  come  now,  old  chap/'  cajoled  Markham, 


BUNKER  BEAN  195 

"be  a  good  fellow.  It's  only  needed  for  a  techni 
cal  purpose,  you  know." 

"I  guess  I'll  hold  on  to  it,"  said  Bean.  "I've 
been  thinking  for  a  long  time " 

"Last  quarter's  dividend  was  3  per  cent.,"  re 
minded  Markham. 

"I  know,"  admitted  Bean,  "and  that's  just 
why.  You  see  I've  got  an  idea " 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  think  J.  B.  doesn't  ex 
actly  approve  of  his  people  here  in  the  office 
speculating.  He  doesn't  consider  it  ...  well, 
you  know  one  of  you  chaps  here,  if  you  weren't 
all  loyal,  might  very  often  take  advantage  —  you 
get  my  point?" 

"I  guess  I  won't  sell  just  now,"  observed  Bean. 

"I  don't  understand  this  at  all,"  said  Markham, 
allowing  it  to  be  seen  that  he  was  shocked. 

Bean  wavered,  but  he  was  nettled.  He  was 
going  to  lose  his  job  anyway.  You  might  as  well 
be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb.  To  Markham 
standing  there,  hurt  and  displeased,  he  looked  up 
and  announced  curtly: 

"I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence!" 

He  had  the  felicity  to  see  Markham  wince  as 
from  an  unseen  blow.  Then  Markham  walked 
back  to  his  own  room.  His  tread  would  have 
broken  ice  capable  of  sustaining  a  hundred  Tullys. 

He  saw  it  all  now.  They  were  plotting  against 
him.  They  had  learned  of  his  plan  to  become  a 
director  and  they  were  trying  to  freeze  him  out. 
He  had  never  spoken  of  this  plan,  but  probably 
they  had  consulted  some  good  medium  who  had 


I96  BUNKER  BEAN 

warned  them  to  look  out  for  him.  Very  well,  if 
they  wanted  fight  they  should  have  fight.  He 
wouldn't  sell  that  stock,  not  even  to  Breede  him 
self 

"Buzz!  Buzz!  Buzz!"  went  the  electric  call  over 
his  desk.  That  meant  Breede.  Very  well;  he 
knew  his  rights.  He  picked  up  his  note-book  and 
answered  the  summons. 

Breede,  munching  an  innocent  cracker,  stared 
at  him. 

"How  long  you  had  that  Federal  stock?" 

"Aunt  bought  it  five  years  ago." 

"Where?" 

"Chicago." 

"Want  to  sell?" 

"I  think  I'd  rather " 

"You  won't  sell?" 

"No!" 

"'S  all!" 

Back  at  his  machine  he  tried  to  determine 
whether  he  would  have  "let  out"  at  Breede  as 
he  had  at  Tully  and  at  Markham.  He  had  sup 
posed  that  Breede  would  of  course  nag  him  as 
the  other  two  had.  And  would  he  have  said  to 
Breede  with  magnificent  impudence,  "I  can 
imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence?"  He  thought 
he  would  have  said  this;  the  masks  were  very  soon 
bound  to  be  off  Breede  and  himself.  The  flapper 
might  start  the  trouble  any  minute.  But  Breede 
had  given  him  no  chance  for  that  lovely  speech* 
No  good  saying  it  unless  you  were  nagged. 

He  became  aware  that  the  ".Federal  people" 


BUNKER  BEAN  197 

Markham  had  mentioned  were  gathering  in 
Breede's  room.  Several  of  them  brushed  by  him. 
Let  them  freeze  him  out  if  they  could.  He 
wondered  what  they  said  at  meetings.  Did  every 
one  talk,  or  only  the  head  director?  Markham 
had  said  this  was  to  be  an  informal  meeting. 

It  is  probable  that  Bean  would  not  have  been 
much  enlightened  by  the  immediate  proceedings 
of  this  informal  meeting.  The  large,  impressive, 
moneyed-looking  directors  sat  easily  about  the 
table  in  Breede's  inner  room,  and  said  little  of 
meaning  to  a  tyro  in  the  express  business. 

The  stock  was  pretty  widely  held  in  small  lots, 
it  seemed,  and  the  agents  out  buying  it  up  were 
obliged  to  proceed  with  caution.  Otherwise  people 
would  get  silly  ideas  and  begin  to  haggle  over  the 
price.  But  the  shares  were  coming  in  as  rapidly 
as  could  be  expected. 

Bean  would  have  made  nothing  of  that.  He 
would  have  been  bored,  until  Markham  made  a 
reference  to  fifty  shares  that  happened  to  be  owned 
by  a  young  chap  in  the  outer  office. 

"Take  'em  over,"  said  one  heavy-jowled  direc 
tor  who  incongruously  held  a  cigarette  between  lips 
that  seemed  to  demand  the  largest  and  blackest 
of  cigars. 

"He  won't  sell,"  answered  Markham.  "I 
spoke  to  him." 

"Tell  him  to,"  said  the  director  to  Breede. 

"Tell  him  yourself,"  said  Breede.  "He  said  he 
wouldn't  sell." 

"Urn!    Well,  well!"  said  the  director. 


i98  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Exactly  what  I  told  him,"  remarked  the  con 
scientious  Tully,  who  was  present  to  take  notes, 
"and  he  said  to  me,  'Mr.  Tully,  I  am  unwilling 
to  imagine  anything  of  less  consequence.'  He 
seemed,  uh  —  I  might  say  —  decided." 

"Gave  me  the  same  thing,"  said  Markham. 

"Leak  in  the  office,"  announced  the  elderly 
advanced  dresser.  "Fifty  shares!"  he  added, 
twirling  the  glasses  on  their  silk  ribbon.  "Hell! 
Going  to  let  him  get  away  with  it?" 

"Got  to  be  careful,"  suggested  a  quiet  director 
v/ho  had  listened.  "  Can't  tell  who's  back  of  him." 

"Call  him  in,"  ordered  the  advanced  dresser, 
fixing  the  glasses  firmly  on  his  purple  nose.  "Call 
him  in!  Bluff  him  in  a  minute!" 

"Buzz!  Buzz!  Buzz!"  smote  fatefully  on  Bean's 
ears.  He  had  expected  it.  If  they  didn't  let 
him  alone,  he  would  tell  them  all  that  he  could 
imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence. 

He  entered  the  room.  He  hardly  dared  scan 
the  faces  of  those  directors  in  the  flesh,  but  they 
were  all  scanning  him.  He  stood  at  the  end  of 
the  table  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  a  railway  map 
that  bedecked  the  opposite  wall,  one  of  those 
mendacious  maps  showing  a  trans-continental 
line  of  unbroken  tangent;  three  thousand  miles 
of  railway  without  a  curve,  the  opposition  lines 
being  mere  spirals. 

"Here,  boy!"  It  was  the  advanced  dresser 
of  the  white  parted  beard  and  the  constant  indigna 
tion.  Bean  looked  at  him.  He  had  known  from 
the  first  that  he  must  clash  with  this  man. 


BUNKER  BEAN  199 

"That  sort  of  thing  '11  never  do  with  us,  you 
know,"  continued  the  old  gentleman,  when  he  had 
diverted  Bean's  attention  from  the  interesting 
map.  "Never  do  at  all;  not  at  all;  not-tat-tall. 
Preposterous !  My  word !  What  rot ! " 

The  last  was,  phonetically,  "Wha5  trawt!" 

Bean  was  studying  the  old  gentleman's  faultless 
garments.  He  wore  a  particularly  effective  waist 
coat  of  white  pique  striped  with  narrow  black 
lines,  and  there  was  a  pink  carnation  in  the  lapel 
of  the  superbly  tailored  frock  coat. 

"Wha'  trawt!"  repeated  the  ornate  director. 
Bean  looked  again  at  the  map. 

"Here,  boy,  your  last  chance.  We  happen  to 
need  those  shares  in  a  little  matter  of  voting.  I'll 
draw  you  a  check  for  the  full  amount." 

He  produced  the  daintiest  of  check-books  and  a 
fountain  pen  of  a  chaste  design  in  gold.  Bean's 
look  was  the  look  of  those  who  see  visions. 

"  Now  then,  now  then ! "  spluttered  the  old  gentle 
man,  the  pen  poised.  "Don't  keep  me  waiting; 
don't  keep  me,  I  say!  What  amount?  Wha' 
tamount?" 

Bean's  eyes  were  withdrawn  from  the  wall.  He 
came  briskly  to  life. 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  moment.  I'll  get  the 
shares." 

"Shrimp!"  said  the  old  gentleman  triumph 
antly,  when  Bean  had  gone. 

"He  told  me"  began  Tully.  But  the  advanced 
dresser  wanted  no  more  of  that. 

"Shrimp!"  he  repeated. 


200  BUNKER  BEAN 

Bean  reentered  with  the  certificates.  The  old 
gentleman  glanced  angrily  over  them. 

"Bean!"  he  exclaimed  humorously.  "Vege 
table  after  all;  not  a  fish!  Funny  name  that! 
Bunker  Bean!  Boston,  by  gad!  Not  bad  that,  I 
say!  Come,  come,  come!  Want  par,  of  course  — 
all  do!  There  y'are,  boy!" 

He  blotted  the  check,  tore  it  from  the  book  and 
waved  it  toward  Bean  as  he  turned  to  the  director 
of  the  cigarette. 

"About  that  proposition  before  us  to-day,  Mr. 

Chairman "  but  Bean  had  gone.  Observing 

this,  the  old  gentleman  looked  about  him. 

"Shrimp!"  he  said  contemptuously,  with  the 
convinced  air  of  an  expert  in  marine  biology. 

Bean,  outside,  once  more  addressed  himself  to 
typewriting.  He  wondered  if  he  should  be  seized 
with  a  toothache  or  a  fainting  spell.  Toothache 
was  good,  but  perhaps  Bulger  had  used  that  too 
often.  Still  Tully  would  "fall"  for  a  toothache. 
It  gave  him  a  chance  to  say  that  if  people  would 

only  go  to  a  dentist  once  every  three  months 

Then  he  remembered  that  Tully  was  inside.  He 
wouldn't  make  any  excuse  at  all. 

"Going  out  a  few  minutes,"  he  explained  to  old 
Metezger  as  he  swiftly  changed  from  his  office 
coat  and  adjusted  the  new  straw  hat. 

Bulger  glanced  up  from  his  machine,  winked 
at  him  and  shaped  a  word  with  his  able  mouth. 
An  adept  in  lip-reading  could  have  seen  it  to  be 
"Chubbins."  Bean  in  response  leered  confession 
at  him. 


BUNKER  BEAN  201 

The  broker's  office  was  in  the  adjoining  block. 

"I've  just  made  a  little  deal,"  explained  Bean 
to  the  person  who  inquired  his  business.  "Here's 
the  check.  You  know  I've  got  a  sort  of  an  idea 
I'd  like  a  little  more  of  that  Federal  Express  stuff. 
Just  buy  me  some  the  same  as  you  did  before,  as 
much  as  you  can  get  on  ten  margins,  er  - —  I  mean 
on  ten  points." 

"Nothing  much  doing  in  that  stock,"  suggested 
the  expert.  "Why  don't  you  get  down  on  some 
the  live  ones.  Now  there's  Union  Pacific " 

"I  know,  but  I  want  Federal  Express.  That  is, 
you  see,  I  want  it  merely  for  a  technical  purpose." 
He  felt  happy  at  recalling  Markham's  phrase. 

"All  right,"  said  the  expert  resignedly.  "We'll 
do  what  we  can.  May  take  three  or  four 
days." 

Bean  started  for  the  door. 

"Say,"  called  the  expert,  as  if  on  second 
thought,  "you're  up  at  Breede's  office,  ain't  you  — 
oldj.  B.'s?" 

"Oh,  I'm  there  for  a  few  days  yet,"  said  Bean. 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  the  expert.     "Have  a  cigar!" 

Bean  aimlessly  accepted  the  proffer. 

"Sit  down  and  gas  a  while,"  urged  the  expert 
genially.  "Things  looking  up  any  over  your  way?" 

"Oh,  so-so,  only,"  said  Bean.  "But  I  can't 
stop,  thanks!  Got  to  hurry  back  to  see  a 


man." 


"Drop  in  again  any  time,"  said  the  expert.  "We 
try  to  make  this  little  den  a  home  for  our  cus 
tomers." 


202  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Thanks!"  said  Bean.     "I'll  be  sure  to." 

"Ah  ha,  and  ah  ha!"  said  the  expert  to  himself. 
"Now  I  wonder." 

On  his  way  back  to  the  office  Bean  suddenly 
discovered  that  he  was  chewing  an  unlighted 
cigar.  He  stopped  to  observe  in  a  polished  win 
dow  its  effect  on  his  face.  He  rather  liked  it.  He 
pulled  the  front  of  his  hat  down  a  bit  and  held 
the  cigar  at  a  confident  angle.  He  thought  it 
made  him  look  forceful.  He  wished  he  might 
pass  the  purple-faced  old  gentleman  —  the  whole 
Breede  gang,  for  that  matter  —  and  chew  the 
cigar  at  them. 

"I'll  show  them,"  he  muttered,  over  and  around 
the  impeding  cigar.  "I'll  show  them  they  can't 
keep  me  off  that  board.  I  knew  what  to  do  in  a 
minute.  Napoleon  of  Finance,  eh?  I'll  show 
them  who's  who!" 

He  was  back  at  his  desk  finishing  the  last  of 
Breede's  letters  for  the  day.  Tully  had  not  dis 
covered  his  absence.  He  winked  at  Bulger  to 
assure  him  that  the  worst  interpretation  could  be 
put  upon  that  absence.  He  wondered  if  anything 
else  could  happen  before  the  day  ended. 

" Telephone  for  Boston  Bean,"  called  the  wag 
of  an  office  boy. 

This  time  he  closed  the  double  door  of  the  booth, 
letting  Bulger  think  what  he  pleased. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  what  you  take,  mornings," 
pealed  the  flapper. 

"Take  — mornings?" 

"For    breakfast,    silly!     Because    I    think    it's 


BUNKER  BEAN  203 

best  for  you  to  take  just  eggs  and  toast;  a  little 
fruit  of  course;  not  all  that  meat  and  things." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course;  eggs  and  —  things.  Never 
want  much." 

"Well,  all  right,  I  just  perfectly  knew  you'd  see 
it  that  way.  I'm  making  up  lists.  Tell  me,  do 
you  like  a  panelled  dining-room,  you  know,  fumed 
oak,  or  something?" 

"Only  kind  I'd  ever  have." 

"I  knew  you  would.  What  are  you  doing  all 
the  time?" 

"Oh,  me?  I'm  getting  things  into  shape.  You 
see,  I  have  an  idea " 

"Don't  you  buy  the  least  little  thing  until  I 
know.  We  want  to  be  sure  everything  harmonizes 
and  I've  just  perfectly  got  everything  in  my  head 
the  way  it  will  be." 

"That's  right;  that's  the  only  way." 

"You  didn't  say  anything  about  —  you  know 
—  to  poor  old  Pops,  did  you  ? " 

"Why,  no.  I  didn't.  You  see  he's  been  pretty 
much  thinking  about  other  things  all  day,  and 
I " 

"Well,  that's  right.  I  was  afraid  you'd  be  just 
perfectly  impatient.  But  you  leave  it  all  to  me. 
I'll  manage.  It's  the  dearest  joke!  I  may  not  tell 
them  for  two  or  three  days.  Every  time  I  get 
alone  I  just  perfectly  giggle  myself  into  spasms. 
Isn't  it  the  funniest?" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  I  should  think  it  was."  He 
was  fearfully  hoping  her  keen  sense  of  humour 
might  continue  to  rule. 


204  BUNKER  BEAN 

"We  do,  don't  we?" 

"Do  what?" 

"You  know,  stupid!" 

"Yes,  yes  indeed!     We  just  perfectly  do!" 

"More  than  any  two  people  ever  did  before, 
don't  we?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  so;  and  then  some." 

"I  knew  you'd  feel  that  way.     Well,  good-bye!" 

He  could  fancy  her  giving  the  double  nod  as 
she  hung  up  the  receiver. 

During  the  ride  uptown  he  talked  large  with  a 
voluble  gentleman  who  had  finished  his  evening 
paper  and  who  wished  to  recite  its  leading  editorial 
from  memory  as  something  of  his  own.  They 
used  terms  like  "the  tired  business  man,"  "in 
creased  cost  of  living,"  "small  investor,"  "the 
common  people,"  and  "enemies  of  the  Public 
Good."  The  man  was  especially  bitter  against  the 
Wall  Street  ring,  and  remarked  that  any  one  wish 
ing  to  draw  a  lesson  from  history  need  look  no 
farther  back  than  the  French  Revolution.  The 
signs  were  to  be  observed  on  every  hand. 

Bean  felt  a  little  guilty,  though  he  tried  to  carry 
it  off.  Was  he  not  one  of  that  same  Wall  Street 
ring?  He  pictured  himself  as  a  tired  business  man 
eating  boiled  eggs  of  a  morning  in  a  dining-room 
panelled  with  fumed  oak,  the  flapper  across  the 
table  in  some  little  old  rag.  He  thought  it  sounded 
pretty  luxurious  —  like  a  betrayal  of  the  common 
people.  Still  he  had  to  follow  his  destiny.  You 
couldn't  get  around  that. 

He  stood  a  long  time  before  Ram-tah  that  night, 


BUNKER  BEAN  205 

grateful  for  the  lesson  he  had  drawn  from  him  in 
the  afternoon.  Back  there  among  those  fierce- 
eyed  directors,  badgered  by  the  most  objection 
able  of  them,  nerving  himself  to  say  presently  that 
he  could  imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence,  there 
had  come  before  his  eyes  the  inspiring  face  of  the 
wise  and  good  king.  But  most  unaccountably, 
as  he  gazed,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  great  Ram- 
tah  had  opened  those  long-closed  eyes;  opened 
them  full  for  a  moment;  then  allowed  the  left  eye 
to  close  swiftly. 


XI 

THE  day  began  with  placid  routine.  Breede 
did  his  accustomed  two-hours'  monologue. 
And  no  one  molested  Bean.  No  one 
appeared  to  know  that  he  was  other  than  he 
seemed,  and  that  big  things  were  going  forward. 
Tully  ignored  him.  Markham,  who  had  the  day 
before  called  him  "Old  man!"  whistled  obliv 
iously  as  they  brushed  past  each  other  hi  the  hall. 
No  directors  called  him  in  to  tell  him  that  would 
never  do  with  them. 

He  was  grateful  for  the  lull.  He  couldn't  be 
"stirred  up"  that  way  every  day.  And  he  needed 
to  gather  strength  against  Breede  when  Breede 
should  discover  that  exquisite  joke  of  the  flapper's. 
He  suspected  that  the  flapper  wouldn't  find  it 
funny  to  keep  the  thing  from  poor  old  Pops  more 
than  a  few  days  longer. 

"I'll  be  drawing  my  last  pay  next  Saturday," 
he  told  himself. 

"Telephone  for  Boston  Baked,"  called  the  office- 
boy  wit,  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Bulger  looked  sympathetic. 

"Same  trouble  I  have,"  he  confided  as  Bean 
passed  him.  "Take  'em  on  once  and  they  bother 
the  life  out  of  you." 

"You'd  never  believe,"  came  the  voice  of  the 
206 


BUNKER  BEAN  207 

flapper.  "I  found  the  darlingest  old  sideboard 
with  claw-feet  yesterday  over  on  Fourth  Avenue. 
He  wants  two  hundred  and  eighty,  but  they're 
all  robbers,  and  I  just  perfectly  mean  to  make  him 
come  down  five  or  ten  dollars.  Every  little  counts. 
You  leave  it  to  me." 

"Sure!     You  fix  it  all  up !" 

"And  maybe  we  won't  want  fumed  oak  in  the 
dining-room  —  maybe  a  rich  mahogany  stain. 
Would  that  suit?  I'm  only  thinking  of  you." 

"I'll  leave  all  that  to  you;  you'll  perfectly  well 
manage." 

"I  just  perfectly  darling  well  knew  you'd  say 
that;  and  I'm  sending  you  down  a  car  — — •" 

"A  what?  Car?"  This  was  even  more  alarm 
ing  than  the  darling  old  sideboard. 

"Just  a  little  old  last  year's  car.  Poor  old  Pops 
would  give  it  to  me  now  if  I  asked  him  —  but 
it's  just  as  well  to  have  it  away  in  case  Moms 
could  ever  make  him  change  his  mind,  only  of 
course  she  perfectly  well  can't  do  anything  of  the 
sort.  But  anyway  I'm  sending  it  to  that  shop 
around  the  corner  in  the  street  below  you,  and 
they'll  hold  it  there  to  your  order.  You  never 
can  tell;  we  might  need  it  suddenly  some  time,  and 
anyway  you  ought  to  have  it,  don't  you  see, 
because  I'm  just  perfectly  giving  it  to  you  this 
minute,  and  you  can  run  about  in  it  with  that  dear 
est  dog,  and  it's  the  very  first  thing  I  ever  gave  you, 
isn't  it?  I'll  always  remember  it  just  for  that. 
It  will  do  us  all  right  for  a  few  weeks,  until  we 
can  look  around.  And  there  never  was  any  one 


208  BUNKER  BEAN 

before,  was  there?  You  just  needn't  answer; 
you'd  have  to  say  *  No, '  and  anyway  Granny  says 
a  young  —  you  know  what  —  should  never  ask 
silly  questions  about  what  happened  before  she  met 
him,  because  it  perfectly  well  makes  rows,  and  I 
know  she's  right,  but  there  never  was,  was  there, 
and  no  matter  anyway,  because  it's  settled  forever 
now,  and  we  do,  don't  we?  My!  but  I'm  excited. 
Don't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  brass  andirons 
and  the  curtains  for  your  den.  Goo'-bye." 

"Huh!  yes,  of  course  not!"  said  Bean,  but  the 
flapper  had  gone. 

Back  at  the  typewriter  he  tried  to  collect  his 
memories  of  her  message:  sideboard  with  darling 
feet  of  some  kind,  no  fumed  oak,  perhaps  — 
brass  andirons,  curtains  for  his  den.  He  couldn't 
recall  what  she  had  said  about  those.  Maybe  it 
would  come  to  him.  He  wished  he  had  told  her  that 
he  already  had  a  few  good  etchings.  And  the  car! 
That  was  plain  in  his  mind  —  little  old  last  year's 
thing  —  at  that  shop  around  the  corner.  Did  one 
say  "garrash"  or  garrige?"  He  heard  both. 

Anyway,  he  owned  a  motor  car;  you  couldn't 
get  around  that.  Maybe  Bulger  wouldn't  open 
his  eyes  if  he  knew  it.  Bulger  was  an  authority 
on  cars,  and  spoke  in  detail  of  their  strange  insides 
with  the  aplomb  of  a  man  who  has  dissected  them 
for  years.  He  had  violent  disputes  with  the  second 
bookkeeper  about  which  was  the  best  car  for 
the  money.  The  bookkeeper  actually  owned  a 
motorcycle,  or  would,  after  he  had  paid  five 
dollars  a  month  a  few  more  times,  but  Bulger 


BUNKER  BEAN  209 

would  never  allow  this  minor  contrivance  to  be 
brought  into  their  discussions.  Bulger  was  in 
tolerant  of  anything  costing  under  five  thou' 
—  eat  you  up  with  repairs. 

Bean  longed  to  approach  Bulger  and  say: 

"Some  dame,  that!  Just  sent  me  a  little  old 
last  year's  car." 

But  he  knew  this  would  never  do.  Bulger  would 
not  only  tell  him  why  the  car  was  of  an  inferior 
make,  but  he  would  want  to  borrow  it  to  take  a 
certain  party,  or  maybe  the  gang,  out  for  a  spin, 
and  get  everybody  killed  or  arrested  or  something. 
Bulger  dressed  fearlessly;  no  one  with  eyes  could 
deny  that;  but  he  was  tactless.  Better  keep  that 
car  under  cover. 

At  seven-thirty  that  evening,  with  Nap  on  a 
leash,  he  strolled  into  the  garage.  He  carried  the 
yellow  stick  and  the  gloves,  and  he  was  prepared 
to  make  all  sorts  of  a  nasty  row  if  they  tried  to 
tell  him  the  car  wasn't  there,  or  so  much  as  hinted 
that  he  might  not  be  the  right  party.  He  knew 
how  to  deal  with  those  automobile  sharks. 

"I  believe  you  have  a  car  here  for  me  —  Mr. 
Bean,"  he  said  briskly.  It  was  the  first  time  in  all 
his  life  that  he  had  spoken  of  himself  as  "Mr. 
Bean!"  He  threw  his  shoulders  back  even  farther 
when  he  had  achieved  it. 

The  soiled  person  whom  he  addressed  merely 
called  to  another  soiled  person  who,  near  at  hand, 
seemed  to  be  beating  an  unruly  car  into  subjec 
tion.  The  second  person  merely  ducked  his  head 
backward  and  over  his  right  shoulder. 


210  BUNKER  BEAN 

"All  right,  all  right!"  said  the  first  person,  and 
then  to  Bean,  "All  right,  all  right!" 

The  car  was  before  him,  a  large,  an  alarming  car 

—  and  red!     It  was  as  red  as  the  unworn  cravat. 

Good  thing  it  was  getting  dark.     He  wouldn't  like 

to  go  out  in  the  daytime  in  one  as  red  as  that, 

not  at  first. 

He  ran  his  eyes  critically  over  it,  trying  to  look 
disappointed. 

"Good  shape?"  he  demanded. 

"How  about  it,  Joe?     She  all  right?" 

Joe  perceptibly  stopped  hammering. 

"Garrumph-rumph!"  he  seemed  to  say. 

"Well?"  said  the  first  person,  eying  Bean  as  if 
this  explained  everything. 

"Take  a  little  spin,"  said  Bean. 

"Paul!" 

Paul  issued  from  the  office,  a  shock-headed, 
slouching  youth  in  extreme  negligee,  a  half- 
burned  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lower  lip.  He 
yawned  without  dislodging  the  cigarette. 

"Gentleman  wants  to  g'wout."  Paul  vanished. 

Nap  had  already  leaped  to  a  seat  in  the  red  car. 
He  had  learned  what  those  things  were  for. 

Paul  reappeared,  trim  in  leathern  cap,  well- 
fitting  Norfolk  jacket  and  shining  puttees. 

"Never  know  he  only  had  on  an  undershirt," 
thought  Bean,  struck  by  this  swiftly  devised  effect 
of  correct  dressing.  He  sat  in  the  roomy  rear 
seat  beside  Nap,  leaning  an  elbow  negligently  on 
the  arm-rest.  He  watched  Paul  shrewdly  in 
certain  mysterious  preparations  for  starting  the 


BUNKER  BEAN  211 

car.  An  observer  would  have  said  that  one  false 
move  on  Paul's  part  would  have  been  enough. 

The  car  rolled  out  and  turned  into  the  wide 
avenue  half  a  block  away. 

"Where  to,  Boss?"  asked  Paul. 

"Just  around,"  said  Bean.     "Tea  and  things!" 

They  glided  swiftly  on. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  old  last  year's  car!"  said  Bean, 
frowning  royally  at  a  couple  of  mere  foot  people 
who  turned  to  stare. 

What  would  that  flapper  do  next? 

He  surrendered  to  the  movement.  Drunkenly 
he  mused  upon  a  wild  inspiration  to  bring  Ram-tah 
out  and  give  him  a  ride  in  this  big  red  car.  It 
appealed  to  him  much.  Ram-tah  would  almost 
open  his  eyes  at  the  novelty  of  that  progress.  But 
he  felt  that  this  was  no  safe  thing  to  do.  He  would 
be  arrested.  The  whole  secret  might  come  out0 

He  had  retained  no  sense  of  direction,  but  he 
was  presently  conscious  of  the  river  close  at  his 
side,  and  then  the  car,  with  warning  blasts,  curved 
up  to  a  much  lighted  building  and  halted.  A  large 
man  in  uniform  came  solicitously  to  help  him 
descend  and  gave  him  a  fragment  of  cardboard 
which  he  knew  would  redeem  his  motor. 

He  was  seated  at  a  table  looking  down  upon  the 
shining  river. 

"Tea  and  things,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 

"Yes,  sir;  black  or  green,  sir?" 

"Bottle  ginger  ale!"  How  did  he  know  whether 
he  wanted  black  ox  green  tea.  No  time  to  be 
fussy. 


212  BUNKER  BEAN 

He  began  a  lordly  survey  of  the  people  at  neigh 
bouring  tables  —  people  who  had  doubtless  walked 
there,  or  come  in  hired  cabs,  at  the  best.  Hired 
cabs  had  yesterday  seemed  impressive  to  him; 
now  they  were  rather  vulgar.  Of  course,  there 
might  be  circumstances 

He  froze  like  a  pointing  dog.  At  a  table  not 
twenty  feet  distant,  actually  in  the  flesh,  sat  the 
Greatest  Pitcher  the  World  Has  Ever  Known. 
For  a  moment  he  could  only  stare  fixedly.  The 
man  was  simply  there  !  He  was  talking  volubly 
to  two  other  men,  and  he  was  also  eating  a  mere 
raspberry  ice! 

It  showed  how  things  "worked  around,"  once 
you  got  started.  Hadn't  his  whole  life  been  a 
proof  of  this  ?  How  many  times  had  he  wished  he 
might  happen  upon  that  Pitcher  just  as  he  was 
now,  in  street  clothes  —  to  look  at  him,  study  him ! 
He  wished  he  had  ordered  raspberry  ice  instead  of 
ginger  ale,  which  he  didn't  like.  He  would  order 
one  anyway. 

It  was  all  Ram-tah.  If  you  knew  you  were  a 
king,  you  needn't  ever  worry  again.  You  sat  still 
and  let  things  come  to  you.  After  all,  a  king  was 
greater  than  a  pitcher,  if  you  came  down  to  it  — 
in  some  ways,  certainly. 

He  stared  until  the  group  left  the  table.  He 
could  actually  have  touched  the  Pitcher  as  he 
passed.  Would  wonders  never  cease? 

Two  men  in  uniform  helped  him  into  the  big 
red  car  again,  tenderly,  as  if  he  were  fragile.  He 
had  meant  to  return  to  the  garage,  but  now  he  saw 


BUNKER  BEAN  213 

the  more  dignified  way  was  to  stop  at  his  own 
house.  Further,  Paul  should  take  him  to  the 
office  in  the  morning  and  call  for  him  at 
four-thirty  again.  He  wouldn't  be  afraid  to 
ride  in  the  red  car  even  in  daylight  now.  Sitting 
there  not  twenty  feet  from  that  Pitcher! 

"Eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  he  said  curtly 
to  Paul  as  he  descended.  And  Paul  touched  his 
leather  cap  respectfully  as  the  car  moved  off. 

Cassidy  lounged  near  in  shirt  sleeves. 

"I  see  three  was  kilt-up  in  wan  yistaday  in  th' 
Bur-ronx,"  said  Cassidy  interestedly. 

"Good  thing  for  the  tired  business  man, 
though,"  said  Bean,  yawning  in  a  bored  way. 
"And  that  fellow  of  mine  is  careful." 

Then  his  seeming  boredom  vanished. 

"Say,  you  can't  guess  who  I  saw  just  now. 
Close  to  him  as  I  am  to  you  this  minute " 


Solitary  in  the  big  red  car,  descending  the  crowded 
lanes  of  the  city  the  next  morning,  Bean's  sensa 
tions  were  conceivably  those  that  had  been  Ram- 
tah's  at  the  zenith  of  his  power.  There  was  the 
fragrant  and  cherished  memory  of  the  Greatest 
Pitcher,  and  a  car  to  ride  solitary  in  that  simply 
blared  the  common  herd  from  before  it.  People 
in  street-cars  looked  enviou'sly  out  at  him.  He 
lolled  urbanely,  with  a  large  public  manner.  When 
you  were  a  king  you  behaved  like  one,  and  the 
world  knelt  to  you.  Great  pitchers  sitting  under 
the  same  roof  with  you;  red  motor-cars;  fumed 


2i4  BUNKER  BEAN 

oak  dining-rooms;  flappers;  brokers;  shares.  He 
wished  he  had  thought  to  chew  an  unlighted  cigar 
in  this  resplendent  chariot.  There  seemed  to  be 
almost  a  public  demand  for  it.  Certain  things 
were  expected  of  a  man! 

"Be  here  at  four-thirty,"  he  directed. 

And  Paul,  his  fellow,  glancing  up  along  the 
twenty-two  stories  of  the  office  building,  was  im 
pressed.  He  considered  it  probable  that  the  bored 
young  man  owned  this  building.  "The  guys  that 
have  gits!"  thought  Paul. 

Bean  was  preposterously  working  once  more, 
playing  the  part  of  a  cog  on  the  wheel.  Another 
day,  it  seemed,  of  that  grotesque  nonsense,  even 
after  the  world's  Greatest  Pitcher  had  sat  not 
twenty  feet  from  him  the  night  before,  eating  rasp 
berry  ice.  But  events  could  not  long  endure  that 
strain.  Before  the  day  was  over  Breede  would 
undoubtedly  "fire"  him,  with  two  or  three  badly 
chosen  words;  actually  go  through  the  form  of 
discharging  a  man  who  had  once  ruled  all  Egypt 
with  a  kindly  but  an  iron  hand! 

Of  course,  the  fellow  was  unconscious  of  this, 
as  he  still  must  be  of  the  rare  joke  the  flapper  was 
exquisitely  holding  over  his  head.  His  demeanour 
toward  Bean  betrayed  no  recognition  of  shares  or 
pitchers  or  big  red  cars,  nor  of  the  ever-impending 
change  in  their  relationship.  He  dictated  frag 
ments  of  English  words,  and  Bean  reconstructed 
them  with  the  cunning  of  a  Cuvier.  He  felt 
astute,  robust,  and  disrespectful.  Just  one  wrong 
word  from  Breede  and  all  would  be  over  between 


BUNKER  BEAN  215 

them.  The  poor  old  wreck  didn't  dream  that  he 
had  nursed  a  flapper  in  his  bosom,  a  flapper  that 
would  just  perfectly  have  what  she  wanted  —  and 
no  good  fussing. 

In  the  outer  office,  however,  he  was  aware  that 
his  expansion  was  subtly  making  itself  felt.  Bulger 
had  insensibly  altered  and  was  treating  him  after 
the  manner  of  a  fellow  club  man.  Old  Metzeger 
said  "Good  morning!"  to  him  affectionately  —  for 
Metzeger  —  and  once  he  detected  Tully  staring  at 
him  through  the  enlarging  glasses  as  if  in  an  effort  to 
read  his  very  soul.  But  he  knew  his  soul  was  not  to 
be  read  by  such  as  Tully.  Tully,  back  there  on  the 
Nile,  would  have  been  a  dancer  —  at  the  most,  a 
fancy  skater  —  if,  indeed,  he  had  risen  to  the 
human  order,  and  were  not  still  a  slinking  gazelle. 
Good  name  that,  for  Tully.  He  would  remember 
it  —  gazelle! 

At  three  o'clock  he  glanced  aside  from  his  type 
writer  to  see  a  director  enter  Breede's  room.  He 
did  not  lift  his  look  above  the  hem  of  the  man's 
coat,  but  he  knew  him  for  the  quiet  one.  And  yet, 
when  the  door  closed  u'pon  him,  he  seemed  to  be 
come  as  noisy  as  any  of  them.  Bean  heard  his 
voice  rising. 

Another  director  came,  the  big  one  who  gripped 
a  cigarette  with  an  obviously  cigar  mouth.  Once 
behind  the  shut  door  he  seemed  to  approve  of  the 
noise  and  to  be  swelling  its  volume. 

Three  other  directors  hurried  in,  the  elderly 
advanced  dresser  in  the  lead.  He,  of  course,  was 
always  indignant,  but  now  the  other  two  were 


216  BUNKER  BEAN 

manifesting  choler  equal  to  his  own.  They 
puffed  and  glowered  and,  when  the  door  had  closed, 
they  seemed  to  help  skilfully  with  the  uproar.  It 
was  a  mob  scene. 

Bean  was  reminded  of  a  newspaper  line  he  had 
once  or  twice  encountered:  "The  scene  was 
one  of  indescribable  confusion.  Pandemonium 
reigned!"  Pandemonium  indubitably  seemed  to 
reign  over  those  directors.  He  wondered.  He 
wondered  uncomfortably. 

"Buzz-z-z-z!    Buzz-z-z-z-z!    Buzz-z-z-z-z-z!" 

He  quit  wondering.     He  knew. 

Yet  for  a  moment  after  he  stood  in  their  presence 
they  seemed  to  take  no  note  of  him.  They  were 
not  sitting  decorously  in  chairs  as  he  conceived 
that  directors  should.  The  big  one  with  the 
cigarette  sat  on  the  table,  ponderously  balanced 
with  a  fat  knee  between  fat  red  hands.  Another 
stood  with  one  foot  on  a  chair.  Only  the  quiet 
one  was  properly  sitting  down.  The  elderly  ad 
vanced  dresser  was  not  even  stationary.  With 
the  faultless  coat  thrown  back  by  pocketed  hands, 
revealing  a  waist  line  greater  than  it  should  have 
been,  he  strutted  and  stamped.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  step  holes  into  the  rug,  and  to  be 
exploding  intimately  to  himself. 

"Plain  enough,"  said  the  man  who  had  been 
studying  his  foot  on  the  chair.  "  Some  one  pulled 
the  plug." 

"And  away  she  goes  —  shoosh!"  said  the  big 
man  dramatically. 

"  Kennedy  &  Balch  buying  right  and  left.     Open 


BUNKER  BEAN  217 

at  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  tomorrow,  sure!" 
said  the  quiet  one  quietly. 

"Placed  an  order  yesterday  for  four  hundred 
shares  and  got  'em,"  said  another,  not  so  quietly. 
"And  to-day  they're  bidding  Federal  Express  up 
to  the  ceiling." 

"Plug  pulled!" 

The  advanced-dressing  director  strutted  to  the 
fore  with  a  visibly  purpling  face. 

"Plug  pulled?  Want  t?  know  where  it  was 
pulled  ?  Right  in  this  office.  Want  to  know  who 
pulled  it?  That!"  He  pointed  unmistakably  to 
the  child  among  them  taking  notes.  At  another 
time  Bean  might  have  quailed,  at  least  momenta 
rily;  but  he  had  now  discovered  that  the  advanced- 
dressing  old  gentleman  used  scent  on  his  clothes. 
He  was  afraid  of  no  man  who  could  do  that  in  the 
public  nostrils.  He  surveyed  the  old  gentleman 
with  frank  hostility,  noting  with  approval,  how 
ever,  the  dignified  yet  different  pattern  of  his 
waistcoat.  But  he  knew  the  other  directors  were 
looking  hard  at  him. 

"Shrimp!  snake!"  added  the  old  gentleman,  like 
a  shocked  naturalist  encountering  a  loathsome 
hybrid. 

"Been  plowing  with  our  heifer?"  asked  Breede 
incisively. 

Bean  was  familiar  with  that  homely  metaphor. 
He  felt  easier. 

"Your  heifer!"  He  would  have  liked  to  snort 
as  the  old  gentleman  did,  but  refrained  from  an 
unpractised  effort!  "  Your  heifer?  No;  I  bought 


2i8  BUNKER  BEAN 

a  good  fat  yoke  of  steers  to  do  my  plowing.  Took 
his  money  to  buy  one  of  'em  with!"  He  waved  a 
careless  arm  at  the  smouldering  vessel  across  the 
table.  They  were  all  gasping,  in  horror,  in  dis 
gust.  He  was  a  little  embarrassed.  He  sought  to 
smooth  the  thing  over  a  bit  with  his  next  words. 

"  Eagle  shot  down  with  its  own  feather,"  he 
said,  hazily  recalling  something  that  had  seemed 
very  poetic  when  he  read  it. 

"  Wha'd  I  tell  you  ?  Wha'd  I  tell  you ! "  shouted 
the  oldest  director,  doing  an  intricate  dance  step. 

"Hold  'ny  Federal?"  asked  Breede. 

"A  block  or  two;  several  margins  of  it,"  said 
Bean. 

"How  many  shares?" 

"Have  to  ask  Kennedy  &  Balch;  they're  my 
brokers.  I  guess  about  some  seven  or  eight  hun 
dred  shares." 

"Wha'd  I  tell  you?  Wha'd  I  tell  you?"  again 
shouted  the  oldest  director,  and,  as  if  despairing 
of  an  answer,  he  swore  surprisingly  for  one  of  his 
•refined  garniture  and  aroma. 

"Find  out  something  in  this  office?"  asked 
Breede,  evenly. 

"Why  wouldn't  I?  I  found  out  something  the 
minute  you  sent  people  to  me  with  that  'By  the 
way — '  stuff.  I  knew  it  as  quick  as  you  had 
them  breaking  their  ankles  trying  to  get  my  fifty 
shares.  Knew  it  the  very  minute  you  sent  that  — 
that  slinking  gazelle  to  me."  He  pointed  at 
Tully. 

He    had    not    meant    to    call    Tully  that.     It 


BUNKER  BEAN  219 

rushed  out.  Tully  wriggled  uneasily  in  his  chair 
at  the  desk,  blushed  well  into  his  yellow  beard, 
then  drew  out  a  kerchief  of  purest  white  silk  and 
began  nervously  to  polish  his  glasses. 

"  Hoo-shaw-Ha-ha-Hooshway ! " 

It  was  Breede,  with,  for  the  moment,  a  second 
purple  face  on  the  Board  of  Directors.  Neither 
Bean  nor  Tully  ever  knew  whether  he  had  sup 
pressed  a  laugh  or  a  sneeze. 

"Come,  come,  come!"  broke  in  the  oldest, 
sweeping  the  largest  director  aside  with  one  ringer 
as  he  pulled  a  chair  to  the  table. 

"This  '11  never  do  with  us,  you  know!  How 
much,  how  much,  how  much?" 

He  again  poised  the  chastely  wrought  fountain 
pen  of  gold  above  the  dainty  check-book  in 
Morocco  leather. 

"Have  to  give  'em  up  you  know;  can't  allow 
that  sort  of  underhand  work;  where'd  the  world 
be,  where'd  it  be,  where'd  it  be?  Sign  an  order; 
tell  me  what  you  paid.  Take  your  word  for  it!" 

He  was  feeling  for  Bean  the  contempt  which  a 
really  distinguished  safe-blower  is  said  to  feel  for 
the  cheap  thief  who  purloins  bottles  of  milk  from 
basement  doorways  in  the  gray  of  dawn. 

"Now,  now,  noW)  boy!"  The  pen  was  still 
poised. 

"Oh,  put  up  your  trinkets,"  said  Bean  with  a 
tine  affectation  of  weariness. 

The  old  gentleman  sat  back  and  exhaled  a 
scented  but  vicious  breath.  There  was  silence. 
It  seemed  to  have  become  evident  that  the 


220  BUNKER  BEAN 

unprincipled  young  scoundrel  must  be  taken  seri 
ously. 

Then  spoke  the  largest  director,  removing  from 
his  lips  a  cigarette  which  his  own  bulk  seemed  to 
reduce  to  something  for  a  microscope  only.  He 
had  been  silent  up  to  this  moment,  and  his  words 
now  caused  Bean  the  first  discomfort  he  had  felt. 

"You  will  come  here  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
began,  slanting  his  entire  facial  area  toward  Bean, 
"and  you  will  make  restitution  for  this  betrayal 
of  trust.  I  think  I  speak  for  these  gentlemen  here, 
when  I  say  we  will  do  nothing  with  you  to-night. 
Of  course,  if  we  chose  —  but  no;  you  are  a  free 
man  until  to-morrow  morning.  After  that  all  will 
depend  on  you.  You  are  still  young;  I  shall  be 
sorry  if  we  are  forced  to  adopt  extreme  measures. 
I  believe  we  shall  all  be  sorry.  But  I  am  sure  a 
night  of  sober  reflection  will  bring  you  to  your 
senses.  You  will  come  here  to-morrow  morning. 
You  may  go." 

The  slow,  cool  words  had  told.  He  tried  to 
preserve  his  confident  front,  as  he  turned  to  the 
door.  He  would  have  left  his  banner  on  the  field 
but  for  the  oldest  director,  who  had  too  long  been 
silent. 

"Snake  in  the  grass!"  hissed  the  oldest  director, 
and  instantly  the  colours  waved  again  from  Bean's 
lifted  standard.  He  did  not  like  the  oldest  direc 
tor  and  he  soared  into  the  pure  ether  of  verbal 
felicity,  forgetful  of  all  threats. 

He  stared  pityingly  at  the  speaker  a  moment, 
then  cruelly  said: 


BUNKER  BEAN  221 

"You  know  they  quit  putting  perfumery  on 
their  clothes  right  after  the  Chicago  fire." 

He  left  the  room  with  faultless  dignity. 

"/wpertinent  young  whelp!"  spluttered  the  old 
est  director;  but  his  first  fellow-director  who  dared 
to  look  at  him  saw  that  he  was  gazing  pensively 
from  the  high  window,  his  back  to  the  group. 

"No  good,"  said  the  quiet  director  to  the  largest. 
"A  little  man's  always  the  hardest  to  bluff.  Bet 
I  could  bluff  you  quicker  than  you  could  bluff  him!" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  what  else,"  answered  the 
largest  director,  who  was  already  feeling  bluffed. 

"Why  didn't  J.  B.  here  assert  himself  then?" 

"  'Fraid  he'd  get  mad  's  'ell  an'  quit  me,"  said 
Breede.  "Only  st'nogfer  ever  found  gimme 
minute's  peace.  Dunno  why  —  talk  aw  ri'.  He 
un'stan's  me;  res'  drive  me  'sane." 

"Plug's  pulled,  anyway,"  commented  the  quiet 
director.  "Only  thing  to  do  is  haul  in  what  we 
can  on  a  rising  market.  God  knows  where  she'll 
stop." 

"Pound  her  down,"  said  the  largest  director 
sagely. 

"Any  pounding  now  will  pound  her  up." 

"Hold  off  and  let  it  die  down." 

"Only  make  it  worse.  No  use;  we've  got  to 
cut  that  money  up." 

"Seven  hundred  shares,  did  he  say?"  asked  the 
large  director.  "Very  pretty  indeed!  J.  B.,  I'll 
only  give  you  one  guess  whether  he  quits  his  job  or 
not." 

"Thasso!"  admitted  Breede  dejectedly. 


222  BUNKER  BEAN 

"He'll  show  up  all  right  in  the  morning,  mark 
me,"  said  the  largest  director,  regaining  confidence. 

"Sneaking  snake  in  the  grass,"  muttered  the 
oldest  director,  yet  without  his  wonted  vim. 

"I'll  telephone  to  McCurdy,  right  in  the  next 
block  here,"  continued  the  largest  director. 
"Might  as  well  have  this  chap  watched  to-night 
and  keep  tight  to  him  to-morrow  until  he  shows  up. 
We  may  find  somebody's  behind  him." 

"  'S  my  idea,"  said  Breede,  "some  one  b'ind  him." 

"Grinning  little  ape!"  remarked  the  oldest  di 
rector  bitterly. 

To  Bean  in  the  outer  office  came  the  facetious 
boy. 

"Telephone  for  Perfesser  Bunker  Hill  Monu 
ment,"  he  said,  but  spoiled  it  by  laughing  himself. 
It  was  extempore  and  had  caught  him  unawares. 
The  harried  Bean  fled  to  the  telephone  booth. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  began  the  flapper,  "not 
to  eat  anything  out  of  cans  unless  I  just  perfectly 
have  it  on  my  pure-food  list.  They  poison  people, 
but  the  dearest  grocer  gave  me  a  list  of  all  the  safe 
things,  made  up  by  a  regular  committee  that  tells 
how  much  poison  each  thing  has  in  it,  so  you  can 
know  right  ofF,  or  alcohol  either.  Now,  remember! 
Oh,  yes,  what  was  I  going  to  say?  Granny  says  the 
first  glamour  soon  fades,  but  after  that  you  just 
perfectly  settle  down  to  solid  companionship.  And 
oh,  yes,  I  want  you  to  let  me  just  perfectly  have 
my  own  way  about  those  hangings  for  the  drawing- 
room,  because  you  see  I  know,  and,  oh,  I  had  some 
thing  else.  No  matter.  Won't  I  be  glad  when 


BUNKER  BEAN  223 

the  deal  is  adjusted  in  the  interests  of  all  concerned, 
as  poor  old  Pops  says.  Why  don't  you  tell  me 
something?  I'm  just  perfectly  waiting  to  hear." 

"Uh,  of  course,  of  course;  you're  just  perfectly 
a  slinking  gazelle.  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  answered  Bean, 
laughing  at  his  own  jest  after  the  manner  of  the 
office-boy. 

He  was  back  making  a  feeble  effort  to  finish 
the  last  of  Breede's  letters.  He  glanced  mechani 
cally  at  his  notes.  Above  that  routine  work  he 
had  so  many  things  to  think  about.  He'd  fixed 
Tully  for  good.  Tully  wouldn't  try  that  "by  the 
way"  and  "not  impossible"  stuff  with  him  any 
more.  And  that  little  old  man  —  perfumery  not 
used  since  the  Chicago  fire,  or  had  he  said  the 
Mexican  War?  No  matter.  And  talked  to  Breede 
about  heifers.  But  there  was  the  big-faced  brute, 
speaking  pretty  seriously.  Let  him  go  free  to 
night!  State's  prison  offence,  maybe!  Might  be 
in  jail  this  time  to-morrow.  Would  the  flapper 
telephone  to  him  there?  Send  him  unpoisoned 
canned  food?  Would  he  be  disgraced?  Breede  — - 
directors  —  glamour  wearing  off —  slinking  gazelles 
with  yellow  whiskers  —  rotten  perfumery.  So 
rushed  the  turbulent  flood  of  his  mind.  But  the 
letter  was  finished  at  last. 

Two  days  later  a  certain  traffic  manager  of  lines 
west  of  Chicago  read  a  paragraph  in  this  letter 
many  times : 

"The  cramped  conditions  of  this  terminal  have 
been  of  course  appreciably  relieved  by  the  com 
pletion  of  the  west-side  cut-off.  Nevertheless 


224  BUNKER  BEAN 

our  traffic  has  not  yet  attained  its  maximum,  and 
new  problems  of  congestion  will  arise  next  year. 
I  am  engaged  to  that  perfectly  flapper  daughter 
of  yours,  and  we  are  going  to  marry  each  other 
when  she  gets  perfectly  good  and  ready.  Better 
not  fuss  any.  Let  Julia  do  the  fussing.  To  meet 
this  emergency  I  dare  say  it  will  come  to  four- 
tracking  the  old  main  line  over  the  entire  division. 
It  will  cost  high,  but  we  must  have  a  first-class 
freight-carrier  if  we  are  to  get  the  business." 

The  traffic  manager  at  first  reached  instinc 
tively  for  his  telegraphic  cipher  code.  But  he 
reflected  that  this  was  not  code-phrasing.  He 
read  the  paragraph  again  and  was  obliged  to 
remind  himself  that  his  only  daughter  was  already 
the  wife  of  a  man  he  knew  to  be  in  excellent  health. 
Also  he  was  acquainted  with  no  one  named  Julia. 

He  copied  from  the  letter  that  portion  of  it 
which  seemed  relevant,  and  destroyed  the  origi 
nal.  He  had  never  heard  it  said  of  Breede;  but 
he  knew  there  are  times  when,  under  continued 
mental  strain,  the  most  abstemious  of  men  will 
relax. 


XII 

WHEN    Bean    emerged    from    the    office- 
building  that  afternoon  he  was  closely 
scrutinized    by    an   inconspicuous   man 
who,  just  inside  the  door  by  the  cigar-stand,  had 
been   conversing   with  Tully.     Bean    saw  Tully, 
but  strode  by  that  gentleman  with  head  erect, 
chest  expanded,  and  waist  drawn  in.     Tully  was 
cut.     And   Bean   did  not,   of  course,   notice  the 
inconspicuous  man  with  whom  Tully  talked. 

This  person,  however,  followed  Bean  to  the 
street,  where  he  seemed  a  little  taken  aback  to 
observe  the  young  man  very  authoritatively 
enter  a  large  red  touring  car  and  utter  a  command 
to  its  driver  with  an  air  of  seasoned  ownership. 
The  red  car  moved  slowly  up  Broadway.  The 
inconspicuous  man  surveyed  the  passing  vehicles, 
and  seemed  relieved  when  he  discovered  an  empty 
taxi-cab  going  north.  He  hailed  it  and  entered, 
giving  directions  to  its  guide  that  entailed  much 
pointing  to  the  large  red  touring  car  now  a  block 
distant. 

Thereafter,  until  late  at  night,  the  red  car  was 
trailed  by  the  taxi-cab.  At  six  o'clock  the  car 
stopped  at  a  place  of  refreshment  overlooking 
the  river,  where  the  trailed  youth  consumed  a 
modest  dinner,  which  he  concluded  with  a  radiant 

225 


226  BUNKER  BEAN 

raspberry  ice.  A  little  later  he  reentered  the  red 
car  and  was  driven  aimlessly  for  a  couple  of  hours 
through  leafy  by-ways.  The  inconspicuous  man 
became  of  the  opinion  that  the  occupant  of  the 
red  car  was  cunningly  endeavouring  to  conceal 
his  true  destination. 

The  car  returned  to  the  place  of  refreshment  at 
nine-thirty,  where  the  young  man  again  ordered 
a  raspberry  ice,  with  which  he  trifled  for  the 
better  part  of  an  hour.  He  betrayed  to  the  alert 
but  inconspicuous  person  who  sat  near  him,  by 
his  expectant  manner  of  scanning  newcomers' 
faces,  that  he  had  hoped  to  meet  some  one  here. 

This  expectation  was  disappointed.  The 
watchful  person  suspected  that  the  youth's  con 
federates  might  have  been  warned.  The  quarry 
at  length  departed,  in  obvious  disappointment, 
and  was  driven  to  his  abode  in  a  decent  neigh 
bourhood.  The  taxi-cab  was  near  enough  to  the 
red  car  when  this  place  was  reached  to  enable 
its  occupant  to  hear  the  young  man  request  it 
for  eight  the  following  morning.  The  young  man 
entered  what  a  sign  at  the  doorway  declared  to 
be  " Choice  Steam-heated  Apartments,"  and  the 
occupant  of  the  taxi-cab  was  presently  overheard 
by  the  janitor  of  the  apartments  expostulating 
with  the  vehicle's  driver  about  the  sum  demanded 
for  his  evening's  recreation.  He  was  heard  to 
denounce  the  fellow  as  "a  thief  and  a  robber!" 
and  to  make  a  vicious  threat  concerning  his 
license. 

Bean  was  face  to  face  with  Ram-tah,  demand- 


BUNKER  BEAN  227 

ing  whatever  strength  might  flow  to  him  from 
that  august  personage.  A  crisis  had  come. 
Either  he  was  a  king,  or  he  was  not  a  king.  If  a 
king,  he  must  do  as  kings  would  do.  If  not  a 
king,  he  would  doubtless  behave  like  a  rabbit. 

But  strength  flowed  to  him  as  always  from  that 
calm,  strong  face.  In  Ram-tan's  presence  he 
could  believe  no  weakness  of  himself.  Put  him 
in  jail,  would  they?  A  man  who  had  not  only 
once  ruled  a  mighty  people  in  peace,  but  who  had, 
some  hundreds  of  centuries  later,  made  Europe 
tremble  under  the  tread  of  his  victorious  armies. 
Ram-tah  had  been  no  fighter  —  but  Napoleon! 
He,  Bunker  Bean,  was  a  wise  king,  yet  a  mighty 
warrior.  Beat  him  down,  would  they?  Merely 
because  he  wanted  to  become  a  director  in  their 
company!  Well,  they  would  find  out  who  they 
were  trying  to  keep  off  that  Board.  What  if 
they  did  put  him  in  jail?  A  good  lawyer  would 
get  him  out  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  writ  of  some 
thing  or  other,  a  stay  of  proceedings,  a  demurrer, 
a  legal  technicality.  He  read  the  papers.  Law 
yers  were  always  getting  Wall  Street  speculators 
out  of  jail  by  some  one  of  those  devices;  and  if 
every  other  means  failed  a  legal  technicality  did 
the  work.  And  the  papers  always  called  the 
released  man  a  Napoleon  of  Finance.  It  wasn't 
going  to  be  so  bad. 

He  hauled  Ram-tah  out  of  the  closet  and  stood 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  for  the  night,  so  that 
courage  might  come  to  him  as  he  slept.  The 
plan  proved  to  be  an  excellent  one  after  Nap  grew 


228  BUNKER  BEAN 

quiet.  Nap  had  always  been  excited  in  Ram- 
tah's  immediate  presence,  and  now  he  insisted 
upon  sniffing  about  the  royal  cadaver  in  a  manner 
atrociously  suggestive.  Being  dissuaded  from 
this  and  consenting  to  sleep,  Bean  sank  into 
dreams  of  mastery  beneath  Ram-tah's  lofty 
aspect. 

He  awoke  with  a  giant's  strength.  He  arrayed 
himself  in  the  newest  check  suit,  and  an  especially 
beautiful  shirt  with  a  lavender  stripe  that  bore 
his  embroidered  initials  on  one  sleeve.  He 
thought  he  would  like  to  face  them  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  and  give  Breede  and  the  fussy  old  gentle 
men  a  good  look  at  that  lettered  arm.  He  was 
almost  persuaded  to  don  the  entirely  red  cravat, 
let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might.  His 
refreshed  spirit  was  equal  to  this  audacity  —  but 
the  red  car.  Wearing  a  red  cravat  in  a  very  red 
car  was  just  a  little  too  loud  —  "different" 
enough,  to  be  sure,  but  hardly  "dignified."  Too 
advanced,  in  short.  At  eight  o'clock  he  went 
out  upon  the  world,  grasping  his  yellow  stick 
and  gloves.  Most  heroically  would  he  enter  the 
office  with  stick  and  gloves.  Make  Bulger  stare! 
And  if  they  put  him  in  jail  he  must  look  right  — 
papers  get  his  picture,  of  course! 

On  the  curb,  before  the  car  that  vibrated  so 
excitingly  he  had  a  happy  thought.  Was  he  to 
go  down  there  and  wait,  pallid,  perhaps  trembling, 
until  they  came  in  and  did  things  with  him? 
Not  he!  A  certain  Corsican  upstart  would  let 
them  assemble  first,  let  them  miss  him  — •  wonder 


BUNKER  BEAN  229 

if  he  would  come  at  all.  Then  he  would  saunter 
in,  superbly  define  the  extreme  limits  of  his  im 
agination,  and  coolly  ask  them  what  they  were 
going  to  do  about  it.  This  would  irritate  them. 
It  would  irritate  them  all,  and  especially  the 
little  oldest  director.  He  would  swell  up  and 
grow  purple.  Perhaps  he  would  have  a  stroke 
right  there  on  the  rug.  Good  work! 

"  Can't  go  to  business  this  early,"  he  said 
genially  to  the  ever  respectful  Paul.  "Too  fine 
a  day.  And  I  got  a  deal  on  hand;  have  to  think 
it  over.  Go  on  out  that  way  for  a  nice  little 
spin." 

Paul  directed  the  car  out  that  way,  spinning 
it  nicely.  It  was  a  monstrous  performance,  to 
spin  at  that  hour  in  a  direction  quite  away  from 
the  place  where  you  are  expected  by  all  the  laws 
of  business  and  common  decency.  This  seemed 
to  be  the  opinion  of  an  inconspicuous  man  who 
followed  discreetly  in  a  taxi-cab.  But  Bean  en 
joyed  it,  thinking  that  the  night  might  find  him 
in  a  narrow  cell.  He  looked  with  new  interest 
on  the  street-cars  full  of  office-bound  people. 
They  were  meekly  going  to  their  tasks  while  he 
was  affronting  men  with  more  millions  than  he 
had  checks  on  the  newest  suit. 

As  they  left  the  city  and  came  to  outlying 
villages,  he  saw  that  he  was  going  in  the  direction 
of  Breede's  place.  He  thought  it  would  be  a 
fine  thing  to  get  the  flapper  and  go  and  be  just 
perfectly  married.  Then  he  could  send  a  tele 
gram  to  the  office,  telling  them  he  could  imagine 


230  BUNKER  BEAN 

nothing  of  less  consequence,  and  that  they  might 
all  go  to  the  devil.  It  was  easy  to  be  "snappy" 
in  a  telegram.  But  he  remembered  that  the 
flapper  just  perfectly  wished  to  manage  it  herself; 
probably  she  wouldn't  like  his  taking  a  hand  in 
the  game.  Better  not  be  rough  with  the  child 
at  the  start. 

They  were  miles  away.  The  person  in  the  taxi- 
cab  might  have  been  observed  searching  his  pockets 
curiously,  and  to  be  counting  what  money  he 
found  therein  as  he  cast  anxious  glances  toward 
the  dial  of  the  taxi-metre. 

Bean  surveyed  the  landscape  approvingly. 
Anyway,  it  was  a  fine  enough  performance  to 
keep  them  waiting  there.  They  would  all  be 
enraged.  Perhaps  the  old  one  would  have  his 
stroke  before  the  arrival  of  the  spectator  to  whom 
it  would  give  the  most  pleasure.  They  might 
be  taking  him  out  to  the  ambulance,  and  all  the 
other  directors  would  stand  there  and  say,  "This 
is  your  work.  Officer,  do  your  duty!"  Well, 
it  would  be  worth  it.  He'd  tell  them  so,  too! 

Looking  ahead,  he  became  aware  that  an 
electric  car  had  suffered  an  accident.  The 
passengers  streamed  out  and  gathered  around  the 
motorrnan  who  was  peering  under  the  car.  As 
Paul  slowed  down  and  turned  aside  to  pass,  the 
motorman  declared,  "She's  burned  out.  Have 
to  wait  for  the  next  car  to  push  us." 

There  were  annoyed  stirrings  in  the  group.  A 
few  passengers  started  for  a  suburban  railway 
station  that  could  be  seen  a  half-mile  distant. 


BUNKER  BEAN  231 

Bean  looked  down  upon  these  delayed  people 
with  amused  sympathy. 

Then,  astoundingly,  his  eye  fell  upon  one  of  the 
passengers  a  little  aloof  from  the  group  about 
the  motorman.  He,  too,  after  a  last  look  at  the 
car,  seemed  to  be  resolving  on  that  long  tramp 
to  the  station.  He  was  a  sightly  young  man, 
tall,  heavily  built,  and  dressed  in  garments  that 
would  on  any  human  form  have  won  Bean's 
instant  respect.  But  on  the  form  of  the  Great 
est  Pitcher  the  World  Has  Ever  Seen — • — !! 

His  mind  was  at  once  vacant  of  all  the  past, 
of  all  the  future.  There  was  no  more  a  Breede, 
male  or  female,  no  more  directors  or  shares  or 
jails.  There  was  only  a  big  golden  Present, 
subduing,  enthralling,  limitless! 

"Stop  car!"  hissed  Bean.  The  car  halted 
three  feet  from  the  young  man  on  foot. 

"Jump  in!"  gasped  Bean. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  young  man;  "I'm  going 
the  other  way." 

"Me,  too!     I  was  turning  around  just  here." 

The  young  man  hesitated,  surveying  his  inter 
locutor. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  it  won't  be  too  much 
trouble?" 

"Trouble!"  The  word  was  a  caress  as  Bean 
uttered  it.  He  pushed  a  door  open,  clumsy  with 
excitement,  and  the  World's  Greatest  Pitcher 
stepped  in  to  sit  beside  him. 

"Grounds?"  asked  Bean. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Pitcher,  "if  it's  convenient." 


232  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Polo  Grounds,"  called  Bean  to  Paul.  "Hurry 
and  turn  around  there,  someway."  He  was 
afraid  his  guest  might  reconsider. 

But  the  guest  sat  contentedly  enough,  the  car 
was  turned,  and  presently  was  speeding  back 
toward  town.  The  person  in  a  taxi-cab  which 
made  the  same  turn  a  moment  later  was  heard 
to  say,  "What  the  devil  now?"  with  no  discern 
ible  relevance. 

"Living  out  this  way?"  asked  Bean  when  he 
was  again  certain  of  his  voice-control. 

"No;  only  went  out  to  stay  over  night  with 
some  friends.  Had  to  get  back  this  morning. 
They  told  me  to  take  that  car  and  change  at " 

"Ought  to  have  one  these,"  said  Bean,  "then 
you  know  where  you  are." 

"This  runs  well,"  said  the  Pitcher  affably. 

"'S  little  old  last  year's  car,"  said  Bean  with 
skilled  ennui. 

He  was  trying  to  remember  —  mustn't  talk 
to  a  ball-player  about  ball;  they're  sick  of  it. 

"Got  a  busy  day  ahead  of  me  in  the  Street," 
he  said  brightly.  "I  was  only  taking  a  little 
spin  to  get  my  head  cleared  out.  Have  to  keep 
your  head  clear  down  there!" 

"Say,  that's  some  suit  you  have  on,"  said  the 
Pitcher  with  frank  admiration.  "I  like  that 
check." 

"Do  you?"  asked  Bean,  trying  not  to  choke. 
Then,  "Where'd  you  get  yours?  I  was  noticing 
that  suit  the  other  night;  saw  you  up  at  Clare- 
mont " 


BUNKER  BEAN  233 

" Couple  of  pals  of  mine  when  I'm  in  town " 

"That  white  line  against  the  blue  comes  out 
great  in  the  day  time.  Cut  well,  too.  I  see  you 
got  one  those  patent  neck-capes  that  prevents 
wrinkling  below  the  coat-collar.  And  extension 
safety  pockets,  I  suppose?" 

"Match  pockets,  change  pockets,  pencil  pock 
ets,  fountain  pen  pockets,  improved  secret 
money  pocket,  right  here;  see?"  The  speaker 
indicated  the  last  mentioned  item.  "Flower 
holder  up  here  under  the  lapel."  He  revealed  it. 

"I  have  'em  make  a  vestee,"  said  Bean;  "goes 
on  with  gold  pins;  adds  dressiness,  the  man  says." 

The  Pitcher  revealed  a  vestee,  adjusted  with 
gold  pins. 

The  red  car  moved  as  smoothly  as  if  nothing 
had  happened. 

Next  was  made  the  momentous  discovery  that 
each  wore  a  shirt  with  the  identical  lavender 
stripe. 

"Initials!"  said  Bean,  pulling  up  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat  and  rotating  his  fore-arm  under  the 
Pitcher's  approving  glance. 

"Got  mine  tattooed  the  same  way,"  said  the 
Pitcher,  pulling  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  in  turn. 

They  discussed  shirts. 

"Funny  thing,"  said  Bean.  "Chap  down  in 
the  office  with  me,  worth  about  a  hundred  million 
if  he's  worth  a  cent,  wears  separate  cuffs;  fastens 
'em  on  with  those  nickel  jiggers." 

"Had  a  fellow  on  the  team  last  year  did  the 
same  thing,"  said  the  Pitcher.  "He's  back  to 


234  BUNKER  BEAN 

the  bush  now,  though.  The  hick  used  to  wear 
a  made-up  neck  tie,  too,  till  the  other  lads  kidded 
him  out  of  it." 

"You  must  get  a  lot  of  those  Silases,  one  time 
and  another,"  said  Bean  sympathetically.  He 
was  wondering;  the  fellow  had  referred  at  least 
indirectly  to  his  calling. 

"In  the  box,  to-day?"  he  asked,  feeling  brazen. 

The  Pitcher  nodded. 

"You  certainly  pitched  some  air-tight  ball 
last  time  I  saw  you.  Say,  I'll  tell  you  something. 
If  I  ever  have  a  kid,  you  know  what's  going  to 
happen?  Nothing  used  but  his  left  hand  from 
the  cradle  up;  and,  for  toys  one  league  ball  and 
a  light  bat.  That's  all." 

"Right  way,"  said  the  Pitcher  approvingly. 

"I'm  only  afraid  the  managers  will  get  wise  to 
him  and  not  let  him  finish  out  his  college  course," 
said  Bean.  "I  don't  know,  though.  I'll  be  in 
the  business  myself  by  that  time;  may  sign  him 
on  myself." 

"Like  it?"  asked  the  Pitcher,  interestedly. 

"Like  it!  Say,  what  else  is  there?  Like  it! 
I'm  only  keeping  on  down  there  in  the  Street  till 
I  put  a  certain  deal  through;  then  nothing  but 
old  Base  B.  Ball  for  mine!  You'll  see.  I'll 
pick  up  one  the  big  clubs  somewhere  if  money'll 
do  it!" 

"Well,  it's  the  one  branch  of  the  business  where 
you  don't  have  to  treat  your  arm  like  a  sick  baby," 
said  the  Pitcher.  "Say,  you  want  to  come  in 
side  a  while?" 


BUNKER  BEAN  235 

To  Bean's  amazement  the  car  had  stopped  be 
fore  the  players'  entrance.  He  had  supposed 
himself  miles  back  in  the  country.  Did  he  want 
to  go  inside  for  a  while!  He  was  out  of  the  car 
as  quickly  as  Nap  could  have  achieved  it. 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was?"  asked  the 
Pitcher. 

He  was  in  a  long  room  lined  with  lockers.  He 
recognized  several  players  lounging  there.  A  big 
man  with  a  hard  face,  half  in  a  uniform,  was 
singing,  "Though  Silver  Threads  Are  'Mong  the 
Gold,  I  Love  You  Just  the  Same."  These  men 
were  requested  to  shake  hands  with  the  Pitcher's 
friend,  Mr.  Bean.  They  were  also  told  informally 
that  his  new  check  suit  was  some  suit. 

"I'll  soon  have  one  coming  off  the  same  piece," 
said  the  Pitcher. 

They  went  through  a  little  door  and  out  upon 
the  grounds.  A  few  players  were  idling  there, 
only  two  of  the  pitchers  being  in  uniform.  The 
vast  empty  stands  and  bleachers  seemed  to  confer 
privacy  upon  an  informal  and  friendly  gathering. 

Several  more  players  shook  hands  with  the 
Pitcher's  friend,  Mr.  Bean,  and  the  circumstance 
of  his  presence  was  explained. 

"I  found  your  twist-paw  out  in  the  brush  with 
nothing  but  a  bum  trolley  car  between  him  and  a 
long  walk,"  said  Bean  jauntily. 

"He's  got  the  prettiest  red  car  that  ever  made 
you  jump  at  a  crossing,"  added  the  Pitcher. 

They  sat  on  the  bench  together. 

"He  winds  up  like  old  Sycamore,"  said  Bean 


236  BUNKER  BEAN 

expertly  of  a  young  pitcher  who  was  working 
nearby. 

"He  does  for  a  fact,"  testified  one  of  the 
players.  "Did  you  know  old  Syc?" 

"Chicago,"  said  Bean.  "Down  and  out;  com 
ing  in  from  some  tank-team  and  having  to  wear 
his  uniform  for  underclothes  all  winter." 

They  regarded  him  with  respectful  interest. 

"Poor  Syc  could  never  learn  to  take  water  in 
it,"  said  one. 

"He  lived  in  a  boarding-house  two  doors  away 
from  me,"  said  Bean.  "And  when  he'd  taken 
about  six  or  seven  in  at  Frank's  Place,  he'd  start 
singing  'My  Darling  Nellie  Gray,'  only  he'd 
have  to  cry  at  about  the  third  verse;  then  he'd 
lick  some  man  that  was  laughing  at  him." 

"That's  old  Syc,  all  right.     You  got  him,  pal!" 

The  talk  went  to  other  stars  of  the  past.  Bean 
mostly  listened,  but  when  he  spoke  they  heard 
one  who  knew  whereof  he  spoke.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  public  performance  of  every  player  of 
prominence  for  ten  years.  He  was  at  home, 
among  equals,  and  easy  in  his  mind. 

An  inconspicuous  man  who  had  gained  admit 
tance  to  the  grounds,  by  alleging  his  need  to  inspect 
a  sign  that  was  to  be  "done  over,"  above  the  fence 
beyond  the  outfield,  passed  closely  to  Bean  and 
detected  the  true  situation  with  one  sweep  of  his 
eagle  eyes. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  this  man  was  saying  over  a 
telephone  to  the  largest  director  who  sat  in  Breed's 
office: 


BUNKER  BEAN  237 

"Nothing  doing  last  night  but  riding  around  in 
a  big  red  car  that  was  waiting  for  him  down  in 
front.  This  morning  at  eight  he  starts  north  and 
picks  up  a  man  just  this  side  Fordham,  from  a 
trolley  car  that  breaks  down.  They  turn  around 
and  go  to  the  baseball  park.  He's  setting  there 
now,  gassing  with  a  lot  of  the  players,  telling 
funny  stories  and  the  like.  He  looks  as  if  he 
didn't  have  a  trouble  on  earth.  My  taxi-cab  bill 
is  now,  for  last  night  and  to-day,  forty-six  eighty- 
five.  Shall  I  keep  on  him?" 

"No!"  shouted  the  largest  director.  "Let  him 
go  to  —  let  him  alone  and  come  in." 

"  I  forgot  to  say,"  added  the  inconspicuous  man, 
"that  the  party  he  picked  up  on  the  road  and 
brought  back  here  looks  like  he  might  be  a  ball 
player  himself." 

"Come  in,"  repeated  the  largest  director;  "on 
a  street-car!" 

"Looks  to  me,"  ventured  the  quiet  director  to 
the  largest,  "as  if  you  didn't  bluff  him  quite  to 
death  last  night." 

"Aut'mobile!"  said  Breede.  "Knew  he  had 
some  one  b'ind  him." 

"Let's  get  to  business.  No  good  putting  it  off 
now,"  said  the  quiet  director. 

"Seven  hundred  shares!  My  God!  This  is 
monstrous!"  said  the  little  eldest  director,  who 
had  been  making  noises  like  a  heavy  locomotive. 

Bean  would  have  sat  forever  on  that  bench  of 
the  mighty,  world-forgetting,  if  not  world-forgot. 


238  BUNKER  BEAN 

But  the  departure  of  several  of  the  men  drew  his 
attention  to  the  supreme  obligation  of  a  guest. 

"Well,"  he  said,  rising. 

"Look  in  on  us  again  some  day,"  urged  the 
Pitcher  cordially. 

"Thanks,  I  surely  will,"  said  Bean.  "I  like  to 
forget  business  this  way,  now  and  then.  Good 
day!" 

They  waved  him  friendly  adieus,  and  he  was 
out  where  Paul  waited. 

"Forget  business!"  He  had  indeed  for  two 
hours  forgotten  business  and  people.  Not  once 
had  he  thought  of  those  waiting  directors. 

Well,  they  could  do  their  worst,  now.  He  was 
ripe  to  laugh  at  any  fate.  What  was  prison? 
"The  prisoner,"  he  seemed  to  read,  "betrayed  no 
consciousness  of  the  enormity  of  his  crime,  and 
had,  indeed,  spent  the  morning  at  the  Polo 
Grounds,  chatting  with  various  members  of  the 
Giants,  with  which  team  he  is  a  great  favourite." 

Let  them  bring  their  gyves.  Let  the  barred 
door  clang  shut! 

"Office!"  he  said  to  Paul.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  Paul's  mind  as  to  the  quality  of  his  patron.  He 
had  at  once  recognized  the  Greatest  Pitcher.  He 
ceased  to  speculate  as  to  whether  this  assured 
young  man  owned  the  high  office-building.  That 
was  now  of  minor  consequence. 

On  the  way  downtown  he  tried  to  remember 
what  day  it  was.  He  thought  it  was  Friday,  but 
again  it  seemed  to  be  Monday.  He  stopped  the 
car  and  bought  an  afternoon  paper  to  find  out. 


BUNKER  BEAN  239 

At  the  entrance  to  the  big  office-building  he 
debated  a  moment. 

"Wait!"  he  directed  Paul. 

He  was  uncertain  how  long  he  might  be  per 
mitted  to  remain  in  that  building.  If  he  must  go 
to  jail,  he  would  ride.  He  wondered  if  Paul  knew 
the  address  of  the  best  jail.  He  could  have  things 
sent  in  to  him  —  magazines  and  fruit. 

Inside  the  entrance  he  paused  before  the  cigar- 
stand.  He  must  think  carefully  what  he  would 
say  to  those  men  of  round  millions.  He  must 
keep  up  his  front.  His  glance  roamed  to  the 
beautifully  illustrated  boxes  of  cigars.  A  good 
idea! 

"Gimme  one  those,"  he  said  to  the  clerk,  indi 
cating  a  box  that  flaunted  the  polychrome  por 
trait  of  a  distinguished-looking  Spaniard.  He  was 
surprised  at  the  price,  but  he  bit  the  tip  off  vio 
lently  and  began  to  mouth  it. 

"I'm  no  penny-pincher,"  he  muttered,  thinking 
of  the  cigar's  cost.  He  tilted  the  cigar  to  a  fearless 
angle  and  slanted  his  hat  over  his  left  eye.  He 
lolled  against  the  cigar-case,  gathering  resolution 
for  the  ordeal. 

The  door  of  an  elevator  down  the  corridor  shot 
open,  and  there  emerged,  in  single  file,  a  proces 
sion,  headed  by  the  little  oldest  director,  who  had 
allowed  him  to  go  free  overnight.  They  marched 
toward  the  door,  looking  straight  ahead.  They 
must  pass  in  front  of  him.  He  felt  a  sudden  great 
relief.  Something  in  their  bearing  told  him  they 
were  powerless  to  restrict  his  liberty. 


240  BUNKER  BEAN 

The  oldest  director  deigned  him  no  glance,  but 
snorted  accurately  in  his  direction,  nevertheless. 
The  quiet  one  grinned  faintly  at  him,  but  the  two 
neutral  directors  passed  him  loftily,  as  if  they 
were  Virtue  scorning  Vice  in  a  morality  play.  The 
largest  director  frowned  at  the  stripling  who  was 
savagely  chewing  a  fifty-cent  cigar  at  the  procession. 

The  moment  was  incontestably  the  stripling's. 
He  was  cool  and  meant  to  take  the  fullest  advan 
tage  of  it.  He  meant  to  say,  contemptuously, 
"I  can  imagine  nothing  of  less  consequence!" 

But  the  officious  cigar-clerk  held  a  lighted  match 
to  the  choice  cigar  and  the  magnificent  defiance 
was  smothered  by  a  cough.  He  was  obliged  to  con 
tent  himself  with  glaring  at  the  expansive  and 
well-rounded  back  of  the  biggest  director. 

He  was  alone  on  the  field,  pretending  enjoyment 
of  a  cigar  which  was  now  lighted  and  loathsome. 

Bulger  entered  from  the  street  and  viewed  him 
with  friendly  alarm. 

"Say,  where  you  been? "  demanded  Bulger.  "Old 
Pussy-foot's  got  a  sore  thumb  right  now  from 
pounding  that  buzzer  of  yours  all  morning.  He's 
hot  at  every  one.  I  heard  him  call  Tully  a 
slinking  something  or  other;  couldn't  get  the 
word,  but  Tully  got  it.  Say,  you  better  get  busy 
—  regular  old  George  W.  Busy  —  if  you  want  to 
hold  that  job." 

"Job!"  laughed  Bean  bitterly,  and  waved  the 
expensive  and  lighted  cigar  in  Bulger's  face. 
"Job!  Well,  I  may  get  busy,  and  then  again  I 
may  not.  All  depends!" 


BUNKER  BEAN  241 

"Gee!"  said  Bulger,  profoundly  moved  by  this 
admirable  spirit  of  insubordination.  "Well,  I 
got  to  get  back;  I'm  five  minutes  late  myself." 

Bean  waited  until  he  had  gone.  Then  he 
strolled  out  to  the  street  and  furtively  dropped  an 
excellent  and  but  slightly  burned  cigar  into  the 
gutter.  He  wished  those  fellows  at  cigar-stands 
would  do  only  what  they  were  put  there  for.  Tak 
ing  liberties  with  people! 

He  decided  to  go  back  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  Let  Breede  do  the  talking,  and  if  he 
talked  rough,  then  tell  him  very  simply  that  noth 
ing  of  less  consequence  could  be  imagined.  Con 
tinue  to  play  the  waiting  game.  That  was  it! 

He  entered  the  office,  humming  lightly.  He 
seemed  to  be  annoyed  by  the  people  he  found 
there.  He  glared  at  Bulger,  at  old  Metzeger,  at 
the  other  clerks,  and  especially  at  Tully.  Tully 
looked  uncomfortable.  He  wasn't  a  gazelle  after 
all.  He  was  a  startled  fawn. 

"Telephone  for "  began  the  office  boy 

humourist,  but  Bean  was  out  of  hearing  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  telephone  booth  before  the  latest 
mot  could  be  delivered. 

"Been  trying  to  get  you  all  the  morning,"  began 
the  flapper  in  eager  tones.  "I  should  think  you 
would  stay  there,  when  I  may  have  to  call  you  any 
minute.  That  grocer  gave  me  the  nicest  little 
book,  'Why  Did  Your  Husband  Fail  in  Busi 
ness?'  with  a  picture  of  the  poor  man  that 
failed  on  the  cover.  It's  because  he  didn't  get 
enough  phosphorous  to  make  him  100  per  cent. 


242  BUNKER  BEAN 

efficient,  and  if  he'd  eaten  'Brain-more'  mush  for 
breakfast,  nothing  would  have  happened.  We'll 
try  it,  anyway,  and  there's  a  triple-plate  spoon  in 
every  package,  so  if  I  order  a  dozen  .  .  .  and 
oh,  yes,  what  was  I  going  to  say?  Why,  I'm  per 
fectly  going  to  pull  off  the  funniest  stunt  this  after 
noon;  you'd  just  deliciously  die  laughing  if  I  told 
you,  but  it  will  be  still  funnier  if  you  don't  know. 
Are  you  paying  attention?  It's  because  I'd  al 
ready  spent  my  allowance  for  three  years  and 
seven  months  ahead  —  I  figured  it  all  out  like  a 
statement  —  and  I've  perfectly  just  got  to  have 
some  money  of  my  real  own.  I've  enough  to 
worry  about  without  bringing  money  into  it,  with 
proper  food  for  you  and  those  patent  laundry  tubs 
I  told  you  about,  and  the  man  says  he  wouldn't 
think  of  letting  it  go  for  less  than  two  seventy-five, 
but  that's  five  dollars  saved.  Well,  good-bye! 
I'll  manage  everything,  and  Granny  says  always  to 
conceal  little  household  worries  from  him,  and  just 
perfectly  keep  the  future  looking  bright  and  inter 
esting  .  .  .  she  says  that's  the  secret.  Good 
bye!  What  am  I?" 

"Startled  fawn,"  said  Bean. 

"Well,  don't  forget." 

"  I  won't.     I'll  attend  to  my  part  all  right." 

He  heard  the  fateful  buzzing  even  before  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  telephone  booth.  Breede 
was  at  it  again.  He  walked  coolly  to  his  desk  for 
a  note-book.  Every  one  else  in  the  office  was 
showing  nervousness.  He  was  the  only  man  who 
could  still  the  troubled  waters.  He  would  play 


BUNKER  BEAN  243 

the  waiting  game;  keep  the  future  looking  "bright 
and  interesting."  Breede  could  do  the  rest. 

"Buzz!  Buzz-z-z-z!  Buzz-z-z-z-z!"  It  sounded 
pretty  vicious. 

He  entered  Breede's  room  with  his  accustomed 
air  of  quiet  service.  Breede  did  not  glance  at  him. 
He  began,  as  usual,  to  dictate  before  Bean  was 
seated. 

"Letter  T.  J.  Williams  'sistant  sup'ntendent 
M.  P.  V  C.  department  C.  V  L.  M.  rai'way  Sh'- 
kawgo  dear  sir  please  note  'closed  schej'l  car 
'pairin'  make  two  copies  send  one  don't  take  that 
an'  let  me  have  at  y'r  earles  c'nvenience " 

Apparently  nothing  at  all  had  happened.  He 
was  at  his  old  post,  and  Breede  did  nothing  but 
explode  fragments  of  words  as  ever.  No  talk  of 
jail  or  betrayal  of  trust  or  of  his  morning's  flagrant 
absence. 

One  might  have  thought  that  Breede  himself 
played  the  waiting  game.  Or  perhaps  Breede 
only  toyed  with  him.  He  fastened  his  gaze  on 
the  criminal  cuffs.  They  were  his  rock  of  refuge 
in  any  cataclysm  that  might  impend.  If  only  he 
could  keep  those  cuifs  within  his  range  of  vision  he 
would  fear  nothing.  Patent  laundry  tubs;  five 
dollars  saved;  why  your  husband  failed  in  busi 
ness;  bright  and  interesting  future 


"'Lo!  'Lo!"  Breede  was  detonating  into 
the  desk-telephone  which  had  sounded  at  his 
elbow. 

"'Lo!  Well?  What?  Run  off!  Stop  non 
sense!  Busy!"  He  hung  up  the  receiver. 


244  BUNKER  BEAN 

" also  mus'  be  stipulated  that  case  of  dividend 

bein'  passed " 

The  desk  telephone  again  rang,  this  time  more 
emphatically.  Bean  was  chilled  by  a  premoni 
tion  that  the  flapper  meant  to  pull  off  that  funny 
stunt  which  was  to  cause  him  quite  deliciously  to 
die  laughing. 

Breede  grasped  the  receiver  again  impatiently. 

"Busy,  tell  you!  No  time  nonsense!  What! 
What.  W-H-A-T!!!" 

He  listened  another  moment,  then  lessening  his 
tone-production  but  losing  nothing  of  intensity, 
he  ripped  out: 

11  Gur  —  reat  Godfrey!" 

His  eyes,  narrowed  as  he  listened,  now  widened 
upon  Bean  who  stared  determinedly  at  the 
cuffs. 

"You  know  what  she  says?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bean  doggedly. 

Then  his  eyes  met  Breeders  and  gave  them  blaze 
for  blaze.  The  Great  Reorganizer  knew  it  not, 
but  he  no  longer  looked  at  Bunker  Bean.  In 
stead,  he  was  trying  to  shrivel  with  his  glare  a 
veritable  king  of  old  Egypt  who  had  enjoyed  the 
power  of  life  and  death  over  his  remotest  subject. 
Bean  did  not  shrivel.  Breede  glared  his  deadliest 
only  a  moment.  He  felt  the  sway  of  the  great 
Ram-tah  without  identifying  it.  He  divined 
that  mere  glaring  would  not  shrivel  this  pre 
sumptuous  atom.  In  truth,  Bean  outglared  him. 
Breede  leaned  again  to  the  telephone,  listening. 
Bean  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  cuffs.  He  sneered  at 


BUNKER  BEAN  245 

them  now.  The  intention  of  the  lifted  upper  lip 
was  too  palpable. 

"Gur-reat  stars  above!"  murmured  Breede. 
"She  says  she's  got  it  all  reasoned  out!"  There 
was  something  almost  plaintive  in  his  tones;  he 
shuddered.  Then  he  rallied  bravely  once  more. 

"Tell  you,  no  time  nonsense.     Busy." 

But  he  seemed  to  know  he  was  beaten.  He  lis 
tened  again,  then  wilted. 

"What  next?"  he  demanded  of  Bean. 

"AAkerl99 

"Nice  mess  you  got  me  into!" 

Bean  sneered  resolutely  at  the  cuffs.  Again  the 
telephone  tinkled. 

Breede  listened  and  horror  grew  on  his  face. 

"Now  she's  told  her  mother,"  he  muttered. 
"My  God!" 

The  transmitter  was  an  excellent  one,  and  Bean 
caught  notes  of  hysteria.  Julia  was  fussing  back 
there. 

"Now,  now!"  urged  Breede.  "No  good.  Bet 
ter  lie  down.  She  says  she's  got  it  all  reasoned 
out,  don't  I  tell  you?"  He  put  a  throttling  hand 
over  the  anguished  voice,  and  looked  dumbly  at 
Bean.  He  noted  the  evil  sneer  and  traced  it  to 
the  cuffs.  Slowly  he  hung  up  the  receiver  and 
took  one  of  the  cuffs  in  his  hands. 

"Wha's  matter  these  cuffs?"  he  demanded  with 
a  show  of  his  true  spirit. 

"Right  enough.  Cuffs  all  right,  if  you  like 
that  kind.  But  why  don't  you  wear  'em  on 
—  like  this?"  He  luminously  exposed  his  left 


246  BUNKER  BEAN 

forearm.     It    was    by    intention    the    one    that 
carried  the  purple  monogram. 

"Sewed  on,  like  that!"  he  added  almost  sharply. 

Breede  seemed  to  be  impressed  by  the  exhibit. 

"Well,"  he  began,  awkwardly,  as  a  man  know 
ing  himself  in  the  wrong  but  still  defiant,  "I  won't 
do  it.  That's  all !  Not  for  anybody." 

Still,  he  seemed  to  consider  that  something  more 
than  mere  apparent  perverseness  would  become 
him. 

"They  get  down  'round  m'  hands  all  the  time. 
Can't  think  when  they  get  down  that  way. 
Bother  me.  Take  m'  mind  off.  I  won't  do  it, 
that's  all.  I  don't  care.  Not  for  anybody  't  all ! " 
He  replaced  the  cuff  beside  its  mate.  He  seemed 
to  be  saying  that  he  had  settled  the  matter  —  and 
no  good  talking  any  more  about  it. 

Bean  was  silent  and  dignified.  His  own  air 
seemed  to  disclose  that  when  once  you  warned 
people  in  plain  words,  you  could  no  longer  be  held 
responsible.  For  a  moment  they  made  a  point 
of  ignoring  the  larger  matter. 

"Say,"  Breede  suddenly  exploded,  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  just  how  many  kinds  of  a  —  no 
matter!  Where  was  I  ?  This  reserve  fund  may  be 
subject  to  draft  f'r  repairs  an'  betterment  durin' 
'suin'  quarter  or  'ntil  such  time  as " 

The  telephone  again  rang  its  alarm.  Breede 
took  the  receiver  and  allowed  dismay  to  be  read 
on  his  face  as  he  listened. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  he  at  length  began,  sooth 
ingly,  "go  lie  down;  take  something;  take  some- 


BUNKER  BEAN  247 

thing;  well,  send  over  t'  White  Plains  f  r  s'more. 
Putcha  t'  sleep.  What  can  /  do?"  Again  the 
throttling  hand. 

He  ruefully  surveyed  his  littered  desk,  then  drew 
the  long  sigh  of  the  baffled. 

"Take  telegram  m'  wife.  Sorry  can't  be  home 
late,  'port'n  board  meet'n'.  May  be  called  out  of 
town." 

The  telephone  rang,  but  was  ignored. 

"Send  it  off,"  he  directed  Bean  above  the  belPs 
clear  call.  "Then  c'mon;  go  ball  game.  G'wup 
'n  subway." 

"Got  car  downstairs,"  suggested  Bean. 

"You  got  your  work  cut  out  f'r  you;  'sail  I  got 
t'  say,"  growled  Breede. 

"'S  little  old  last  year's  car,"  said  Bean  mod 
estly. 


XIII 

A>  THE  little  old  last  year's  car  bore  them 
to  the  north,  some  long  sleeping-imaga 
seemed  to  stir  in  Breeders  mind. 

"Got  car  like  this  m'self  somewheres,"  he 
remarked. 

Bean  was  relieved.  He  didn't  want  the  name 
of  a  woman  to  be  brought  into  the  matter  just  then. 

"  'S  all  right  for  town  work,"  he  said.  "Good 
enough  for  all  I  want  of  a  car." 

"'S  awful!"  said  Breede,  obviously  forgetting 
the  car  for  another  subject. 

"What  can  /  do?  She  says  she's  got  the  right," 
suggested  Bean. 

"She'd  take  it  anyway.  /  know  her.  Pack  a 
suit-case.  Had  times  with  her  already.  Takes 
it  from  her  mother." 

"Can't  be  too  rough  at  the  start,"  declared 
Bean.  "Manage  'em  of  course,  but  'thout  their 
finding  it  out  —  velvet  glove."  He  looked  quietly 
confident  and  Breede  glanced  at  him  almost  re 
spectfully. 

"When?"  he  asked. 

"Haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet,"  said  Bean 
firmly.  "I  may  consult  her,  then  again  I  may 
not;  don't  believe  in  long  engagements." 

Breede's  glance  this  time  was  wholly  respectful. 


BUNKER  BEAN  249 

"You're  a  puzzle  to  me,"  he  conceded. 

Bean's  shrug  eloquently  seemed  to  retort,  "that's 
what  they  all  say,  sooner  or  later." 

They  were  silent  upon  this.  Bean  wondered  if 
Julia  was  still  fussing  back  there.  Or  had  she 
sent  to  White  Plains  for  some  more?  And  what 
was  the  flapper  just  perfectly  doing  at  that 
moment?  Life  was  wonderful!  Here  he  was 
to  witness  a  ball  game  on  Friday! 

They  were  in  the  grandstand,  each  willing  and 
glad  to  forget,  for  the  moment,  just  how  weirdly 
wonderful  life  was.  A  bell  clanged  twice,  the 
plate  was  swept  with  a  stubby  broom,  the  home 
team  scurried  to  their  places. 

"There  he  is!"  exclaimed  Breede;  "that's  him!" 
Breede  leaned  out  over  the  railing  and  pointed  to 
the  Greatest  Pitcher  the  World  Has  Ever  Seen. 
Bean  sat  coolly  back. 

The  Pitcher  scanned  the  first  rows  of  faces  in 
the  grandstand.  His  glance  came  to  rest  on  a 
slight,  becomingly  attired  young  man,  who  be 
trayed  no  emotion,  and,  in  the  presence  of  twenty 
thousand  people,  the  Pitcher  unmistakably  saluted 
Bunker  Bean.  Bean  gracefully  acknowledged  the 
attention. 

"He  know  you?"  queried  Breede  with  anima 
tion. 

"Know  me!"  He  looked  at  Breede  almost  pity 
ingly,  then  turned  away. 

The  Pitcher  sent  the  ball  fairly  over  the  plate. 

" Stur-r-r-r-ike  one!"  bellowed  the  umpire. 

"With    him    all    morning,"   said    Bean    conde- 


250  BUNKER  BEAN 

scendingly  to  his  admiring  companion.  "Get 
shirts  same  place,"  he  added. 

His  cup  had  run  over.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
confiding  to  his  companion  the  supreme  felicity 
in  store  for  Breede  as  a  grandfather.  But  the 
batter  struck  out  and  the  moment  was  only  for 
raw  rejoicing.  They  forgot.  Bean  ceased  to  be 
a  puzzle  to  any  one,  and  Breede  lapsed  into  un 
consciousness  of  Julia. 

The  game  held  them  for  eleven  innings.  The 
Greatest  Pitcher  saved  it  to  the  home  team. 

"He  was  saying  to  me  only  this  morning " 

began  Bean,  as  the  Pitcher  fielded  the  last  bunt. 
But  the  prized  quotation  was  lost  in  the  up 
roar.  Pandemonium  truly  reigned  and  the  scene 
was  unquestionably  one  of  indescribable  confu 
sion. 

Outside  the  gate  they  were  again  Breede  and 
Bean;  or,  rather,  Bean  and  Breede.  The  latter 
could  not  so  quickly  forget  that  public  recognition 
by  the  Greatest  Pitcher. 

"You're  a  puzzle  t'me,"  said  Breede.  "Lord! 
I  can't  g'ome  yet.  Have't  take  me  club." 

"Can't  make  y'out,"  admitted  Breede  once 
more,  as  they  parted  before  the  sanctuary  he 
had  indicated. 

"Often  puzzle  myself,"  confessed  the  inscrutable 
one,  as  the  little  old  last  year's  car  started  on. 
Breede  stood  on  the  pavement  looking  after  it. 
For  some  reason  the  car  puzzled  him,  too. 

Bean  was  wondering  if  Julia  herself  wouldn't 
have  been  a  little  appeased  if  she  could  have  seen 


BUNKER  BEAN  251 

the  Pitcher  single  him  out  of  that  throng.  Some 
day  he  might  crush  the  woman  by  actually  taking 
the  Pitcher  to  call. 

At  his  door  he  dismissed  the  car.  He  wanted 
quiet.  He  wanted  to  think  it  all  out.  That 
morning  it  had  seemed  probable  that  by  this  time 
he  would  have  been  occupying  a  felon's  cell, 
inspecting  the  magazines  and  fruit  sent  to  him. 
Instead,  he  was  not  only  free,  but  he  was  keeping 
a  man  worth  many  millions  from  his  own  home, 
and  perhaps  he  had  caused  that  man's  wife  to  send 
over  to  White  Plains  for  some  more.  It  was 
Ram-tah.  All  Ram-tah.  If  only  every  one  could 
find  his  Ram-tah 

Cassidy  was  reading  his  favourite  evening 
paper,  the  one  that  shrieked  to  the  extreme  limits 
of  its  first  page  in  scarlet  headlines  and  mammoth 
type.  It  was  a  paper  that  Bean  never  bought, 
because  the  red  ink  rubbed  off  to  the  peril  of  one's 
eigh teen-dollar  suit. 

Cassidy,  who  for  thirty  years  had  voted  as  the 
ward-boss  directed,  was  for  the  moment  believing 
himself  to  be  a  rabid  socialist. 

"Wall  Street  crooks!"  he  began,  in  a  fine  orative 
frenzy.  "Dur-r-rinkin'  their  champagne  whilst 
th'  honest  poor's  lucky  t'  git  a  shell  av  hops! 
Ruh-hobbin'  th'  tax-pay'r  fV  t'  buy  floozie  gowns 
an'  joold  bresslets  f'r  their  fancy  wives  an'  such. 
I  know  th'  kind  well;  not  wan  cud  do  a  day's  bakin' 
or  windy- washin'I" 

He  held  the  noisy  sheet  before  Bean  and  accus 
ingly  pointed  a  blunt  forefinger.  "Burly  Blonde 


252  BUNKER  BEAN 

Divorcee,  Routed  Society  Burglar,"  across  the  first 
two  columns,  but  the  proceeding  was  rather 
tamely  typed  and  the  Burly  Blonde's  portrait  in 
evening  dress  was  inconspicuous  beside  the  head 
lines  "Flurry  in  Federal  Express!  )Vild  Scenes 
on  Stock  Exchange.  Millions  made  by  Gentle 
men's  Agreement." 

"Gentlemin!"  hissed  Cassidy.  "The  sem  agree- 
mint  that  two  gentlemin  porch-climbers  has  whin 
wan  climbs  whilst  th'  other  watches  t'  see  is  th' 
cop  at  th'  upper  ind  av  th'  beat!  Millions  med 
whilst  I'm  wur-r-kin'  f'r  twinty  per  month  an' 
what's  slipped  me  —  th'  sem  not  buyin'  manny 
jools  ner  private  steamboats!  Millions  med! 
I  know  th'  kind  well!"  Bean  felt  his  own  indig 
nation  rise  with  Cassidy's.  He  was  seeing  why 
they  had  feared  to  have  him  on  the  board  of  di 
rectors.  Apparently  they  were  bent  on  wrecking 
the  company  by  a  campaign  of  extravagance. 
The  substance  of  what  he  gleaned  from  Cassidy's 
newspaper  was  that  those  directors  had  declared 
a  stock  dividend  of  200  per  cent,  and  a  cash  divi 
dend  of  100  per  cent. 

They  were  madly  wrecking  the  company  in 
which  he  had  invested  his  savings.  Such  was  his 
first  thought.  And  they  were  crooks,  as  Cassidy 
said,  because  for  two  years  they  had  been  quietly, 
through  discreet  agents,  buying  in  the  stock  from 
unsuspecting  holders. 

"Rascals,"  agreed  Bean  with  Cassidy,  having 
but  slight  gifts  for  character  analysis. 

"Tellin'  th'  poor  dubs  th'  stock  was  goin'  down 


BUNKER  BEAN  253 

with  one  hand  an'  buyin'  it  in  with  thj  other,"  said 
the  janitor,  lucidly. 

Bean  was  suddenly  troubled  by  a  cross-current 
of  thought.  When  you  wrecked  a  company  you 
didn't  buy  in  the  stock  —  you  sold.  He  viewed 
the  headlines  from  a  new  angle.  Those  directors 
were  undoubtedly  rascals,  but  was  he  not  a  rascal 
himself?  What  about  his  own  shares? 

"Maybe  there's  something  we  don't  understand 
about  it,"  he  ventured  to  Cassidy. 

"I  know  th'  kind  well,"  persisted  Cassidy. 
"Th'  idle  rich!  Small  use  have  they  fr  th'  wur- 
r-r-kin'  man!  Souls  no  wider  than  th'  black  av 
y'rnail!" 

"Might  have  had  good  reasons,"  said  Bean, 
cautiously. 

"Millions  av  thim,"  assented  Cassidy  with 
a  pointed  cynicism.  "An'  me  own  father  dyin' 
twinty-three  years  ago  fr'm  ixposure  contracted 
in  County  Mayo ! " 

Bean  returned  the  paper  to  its  owner  and  went 
slowly  in  to  Ram-tah.  One  of  the  idle  rich! 
Well,  that  is  what  kings  mostly  were,  if  you  came 
down  to  it.  At  least  they  had  to  be  rich  to  buy 
all  those  palaces.  But  not  necessarily  idle.  The 
renewed  Ram-tah  would  not  be  idle.  It  was  not 
idleness  to  own  a  major-league  club. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  intercourse  he  felt 
that  he  faced  the  dead  king  almost  as  an  equal. 
He  was  confronted  by  problems  of  administration, 
as  Ram-tah  must  often  have  been.  He  must  think. 

If  the  flapper  quite  madly  brought  about  an 


254  BUNKER  BEAN 

immediate  marriage  they  would,  for  their  honey 
moon,  follow  the  home  club  on  its  Western  trip, 
and  the  groom  would  not  be  idle.  He  would  be 
"looking  over  the  ground."  Then  he  would  buy 
one  of  the  clubs.  If  he  proved  to  be  not  rich 
enough  for  that,  not  quite  as  rich  as  one  of  the 
idle  rich,  he  would  buy  stock  and  become  a 
director.  He  was  feeling  now  that  he  knew  how 
to  be  a  director;  that  his  experience  with  the 
express  company  had  qualified  him.  He  wondered 
how  rich  he  would  prove  to  be.  Maybe  he  would 
have  as  much  as  thirty  thousand  dollars. 

And  he  was  a  puzzle  to  Breede.  He  looked 
knowingly  at  Ram-tah  when  he  remembered 
this.  Ram-tah  had  probably  puzzled  people,  too. 


He  went  to  the  office  in  the  morning  still  wonder 
ing  how  rich  he  might  be.  The  newspaper  he 
read  did  not  enlighten  him,  though  it  spoke 
frankly  of  "Federal  Express  Scandal."  If  the 
thing  was  very  scandalous,  perhaps  he  had  made 
a  lot  of  money.  But  he  could  not  be  sure  of  this. 
It  might  be  merely  "newspaper  vituperation," 
which  was  something  he  knew  to  be  not  uncommon. 
The  paper  had  declared  that  those  directors  had 
juggled  a  twenty-million  dollar  surplus  for  years, 
lending  it  to  one  another  at  a  low  rate  of  interest, 
until,  alarmed  by  clamouring  stockholders,  they 
had  declared  this  enormous  dividend,  taking  first, 
however,  the  precaution  to  buy  for  a  low  price  all 
the  stock  they  could.  But  the  newspaper  did  not 


BUNKER  BEAN  255 

say  how  rich  any  one  would  be  that  had  a  whole 
lot  of  margins  on  that  stock  at  Kennedy  & 
Balch's.  Maybe  you  had  to  hire  a  lawyer  in 
those  cases. 

Entering  the  office,  he  was  rudely  shocked  by 
Tully. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Bean!"  said  Tully  dis 
tinctly. 

"Good-morning!"  returned  Bean,  stunned  by 
Tully's  "Mr."  "Uh!  pleasant  day,"  he  added. 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Tully,  again  distinctly. 

Bean  controlled  himself  and  went  to  his  desk. 

"'Mr.'  and  'Sir'!  Gee!  Am  I  as  rich  as 
that?"  he  thought. 

Half  an  hour  later  it  no  longer  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  rich  at  all.  He  was  seated  op 
posite  Breede  taking  letters  in  shorthand  as  if  he 
were  merely  a  thirty-dollar-a-week  Bunker  Bean. 
Breede  was  refusing  to  recognize  any  change  in 
their  relationship.  He  made  no  reference  to  their 
talk  of  the  day  before  and  his  detached  cuffs 
stubbornly  occupied  their  old  position  on  the  desk. 
Was  it  all  a  dream  —  and  the  flapper,  too? 

But  the  flapper  soon  called  him  to  the  tele 
phone. 

"Poor  old  Pops  came  home  late,  and  he  says 
you're  just  perfectly  a  puzzle  to  him,"  she  began. 

"I  know,"  said  Bean;  "he  says  he  can't  make 
me  out." 

"And  Moms  began  to  say  the  silliest  things 
about  you,  until  I  just  had  to  take  her  seriously, 
so  I  perfectly  told  her  that  woman  had  come  into 


256  BUNKER  BEAN 

her  own  in  this  generation,  thanks  to  a  few  noble 
leaders  of  our  sex  —  it's  in  Granny's  last  speech 
at  the  league  —  and  that  sent  her  up  in  the  air. 
I  don't  think  she  can  be  as  well  as  she  used  to  be; 
and  I  told  Pops  he  had  to  give  me  some  money,  and 
he  said  he  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did,  so  what  was  the 
use  of  talking  about  it,  and  so  he  just  perfectly 
gave  me  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  dollars  and  told 
me  to  make  it  go  as  far  as  I  could,  but  I  don't  know, 
that  grocer  says  the  cost  of  living  is  going  up  every 
day  because  the  Senate  isn't  insurgent  enough; 
and  anyway  I'll  get  the  tickets  and  a  suite  on  that 
little  old  boat  that  sails  Wednesday.  I  thought 
you'd  want  a  day  or  two;  and  everything  will  be 
very  quiet,  only  the  family  present,  coming  into 
town  for  it,  you  know,  Wednesday  morning,  and 
the  boat  sails  at  noon,  and  I'll  be  so  perfectly 
glad  when  it's  all  over  because  it's  a  very  serious 
step  for  a  young  girl  to  take.  Granny  herself  says  it 
should  never  be  taken  lightly,  unless  you  just 
perfectly  know,  but  of  course  we  do,  don't  we? 
I  think  you'll  like  fumed  oak  better,  after  all  — 
and  poor  old  Pops  saying  you're  such  a  puzzle  to 
him.  He  says  he  can't  make  out  just  how  many 
kinds  of  a  perfectly  swear-word  fool  you  are,  but 
I  can,  and  that's  just  deliciously  enough  for  any 
body.  And  you're  to  come  out  to-morrow  and 
have  tea  and  things  in  the  afternoon,  and  Fm 
going  to  be  before  sister  is,  after  all.  She's  per 
fectly  furious  about  it  and  says  I  ought  to  be  put 
back  into  short  skirts,  but  I  just  perfectly  knew 
it  the  very  first  time  I  ever  looked  at  you.  Stay 


BUNKER  BEAN  257 

around  there,  in  case  I  think  of  something  I've 
forgotten.  G'bye." 

Wednesday  —  a  little  old  steamer  sailing  at 
noon!  A  steamer,  and  he  couldn't  swim  a  stroke 
and  was  always  terrified  by  water.  And  the  trip 
West  with  the  home  team!  What  about  that? 
Why  had  he  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  cut  in  and 
just  perfectly  tell  her  where  they  were  going?  But 
he  had  let  the  moment  pass.  It  was  too  late. 
He  didn't  want  to  begin  by  making  a  row.  And 
Breede  was  puzzled  by  him  that  way,  was  he? 
Couldn't  make  out  how  many  kinds  of  perfectly 
swear-word  fool  he  was? 

He  regretted  that  he  had  not  been  more  em 
phatic  about  those  cuffs  And  Breede  had  said  it 
after  witnessing  that  salute  from  the  pitcher's 
box!  He  must  be  a  hard  man  to  convince  of 
anything.  What  more  proof  did  he  want? 

Buzz!    Buzz!    Buzz! 

The  man  who  couldn't  make  him  out  was 
calling  for  him.  For  an  hour  longer  he  took  down 
the  man's  words,  not  sneering  pointedly  at  the 
cuffs,  yet  allowing  it  to  be  seen  that  he  was 
conscious  of  them.  A  puzzle  was  he? 

" Hop  in'  t'ave  promp'  action  accordin' 

'bove  'structions,  remain  yours  ver'  truly  she's 
got  it  all  reasoned  out,"  concluded  Breede. 

"She  just  told  me,"  said  Bean;  "little  old 
steamer  sailing  Wednesday." 

"Can't  make  y'  out,"  said  Breede. 

That  thing  was  getting  tiresome. 

"You're  a  puzzle  to  me,  too,"  said  Bean. 


258  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Hanh!    Wha's  'at?    What  kinda  puzzle?" 

"Same  kind,"  said  Bean,  brightly. 

"Hum!"  said  Breede,  and  pretended  to  search 
for  a  missing  document.  Then  he  eyed  Bean 
again. 

"Know  how  much  you  made  on  that  Federal 
stuff?" 

"I  was  going  to  ask  a  lawyer,"  confessed  Bean. 
"I  got  a  whole  lot  of  margins  or  whatever  you  call 
'em  around  at  that  broker's.  Maybe  he  wouldn't 
mind  letting  me  know." 

"Stock'll  be  up  t'  six  hundred  before  week's  out; 
net  you  'round  four  hund'  thous'n',"  exploded 
Breede  in  his  most  vicious  manner. 

"Four  hundred  thousand  margins?"  He 
wanted  to  be  cautious. 

"Dollars,  dammit!"  shouted  Breede. 

Bean  was  able  to  remain  cool.  That  amount 
of  money  would  have  meant  nothing  to  him  back 
on  the  Nile.  Why  should  it  now? 

"It  wasn't  the  money  I  was  after,"  he  began, 
loftily. 

"Hank!" 

"Principle  of  the  thing!"  concluded  Bean. 

Breede  had  lost  control  of  his  capable  under  jaw. 
Itxsagged  limply.  At  last  he  spoke,  slowly  and 
with  awe  in  his  tone. 

"You  don't  puzzle  me  any  more."  He  shook 
his  head  solemnly.  "Not  any  more.  I  know 
now!" 

"Little  old  steamer  —  can't  swim  a  stroke," 
said  Bean. 


BUNKER  BEAN  259 

"'S  all,"  said  Breede,  still  shaking  his  head 
helplessly. 

At  his  desk  outside  Bean  feigned  to  be  absorbed 
in  an  intricate  calculation.  In  reality  he  was 
putting  down  "400,000,"  then  " $400,000,"  then 
"  $400,000.00"  By  noon  he  had  covered  several 
pages  of  his  note-book  with  this  instructive 
exercise.  Once  he  had  written  it  $398,973.87, 
with  a  half-formed  idea  of  showing  it  to  old 
Metzeger. 

AS  he  was  going  out  Tully  trod  lightly  over 
a  sheet  of  very  thin  ice  and  accosted  him. 

"The  market  was  not  discouraging  to-day," 
said  Tully  genially. 

"'S  good  time  to  buy  heavily  in  margins," 
said  Bean. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Tully  respectfully. 

In  the  street  he  chanted  "four  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars"  to  himself.  He  was  one  of  the  idle 
rich.  He  hoped  Cassidy  would  never  hear  of  it. 
Then,  passing  a  steamship  office,  he  recalled  the 
horror  that  lay  ahead  of  him.  Little  old  steamer. 
But  was  a  financier  who  had  been  netted  four 
hundred  thousand  dollars  to  be  put  afloat  upon 
the  waters  at  the  whim  of  a  flapper?  She  was 
going  too  far.  He'd  better  tell  her  so  in  plain 
words;  say,  "Look  here,  I've  just  netted  four 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  no  little  old  steamer 
for  mine.  I  don't  care  much  for  the  ocean.  We 
stay  on  land.  Better  understand  who's  who  right 
at  the  start." 

That  is  what  he  would  tell  the  flapper;  make 


26o  BUNKER  BEAN 

it  clear  to  her.  She'd  had  her  own  way  long 
enough.  Marriage  was  a  serious  business.  He 
was  still  resolving  this  when  he  turned  into  a  shop. 
"I  want  to  get  a  steamer  trunk  —  sailing 
Wednesday,"  he  said  in  firm  tones  to  the  clerk. 


It  was  midnight  of  Tuesday.  In  the  steam- 
heated  apartment  Bean  paced  the  floor.  He  was 
attired  in  the  garments  prescribed  for  gentlemen's 
evening  wear,  and  he  was  still  pleasantly  fretted 
by  the  excitement  of  having  dined  with  the  Breede 
family  at  the  ponderous  town  house  up  east  of  the 
park. 

He  tried  to  recall  in  their  order  the  events  of 
those  three  days  since  he  had  left  the  office  on 
Saturday.  His  coolest  efforts  failed.  It  was  like 
watching  a  screen  upon  which  many  and  diverse 
films  were  superimposing  scenes  in  which  he  was 
an  actor  of  more  or  less  consequence,  but  in  which 
his  figure  was  always  blurred.  It  was  confounding. 

Yet  he  had  certainly  gone  out  to  that  country 
place  Sunday  for  tea  and  things,  taking  Nap. 
And  the  flapper,  with  a  sinful  pride,  had  shown 
him  off  to  the  family.  He  and  the  flapper  had 
clearly  been  of  more  consequence  than  the  big 
sister  and  the  affianced  waster,  who  wouldn't 
be  able  to  earn  his  own  cigarettes,  say  nothing  of 
his  ties  and  gloves.  Sister  and  the  waster,  who 
seemed  to  be  an  agreeable  young  man,  were  simply 
engaged  in  a  prosaic  way,  and  looked  prosaically 
forward  to  a  church  wedding.  No  one  thought 


BUNKER  BEAN  261 

anything  about  them,  and  sister  was  indeed  made 
perfectly  furious  by  the  airs  the  flapper  put  on. 

Mrs.  Breede,  from  one  of  the  very  oldest  fam 
ilies  of  Omaha,  had  displayed  amazing  fortitude. 
She  had  not  broken  down  once,  although  she 
plainly  regarded  Bean  as  a  malignant  and  fatal 
disease  with  which  her  latest-born  had  been 
infected.  "I  must  be  brave,  brave!"  she  had 
seemed  to  be  reminding  herself.  And  when  Nap 
had  chased  and  chewed  her  toy  spaniel,  named 
"Rex,"  until  it  seemed  that  Rex  might  pass  on, 
she  had  summoned  all  her  woman's  resignation 
and  only  murmured  , "Nothing  can  matter  now!" 

There  had  seemed  to  be  one  fleeting  epoch 
which  he  shared  alone  with  the  flapper,  feeling  the 
smooth  yielding  of  her  cheek  and  expanding  under 
her  very  proudest  gaze  of  ownership.  And  a 
little  more  about  fumed  oak  panels  and  the  patent 
laundry  tubs. 

Monday  there  had  been  a  mere  look-in  at  the 
office,  with  Tully  saying  "Sir";  with  Breede 
exploding  fragments  of  words  to  a  middle-aged 
and  severely  gowned  woman  stenographer  who 
was  more  formidable  than  a  panorama  of  the 
Swiss  Alps,  and  who  plainly  made  Breede  uncom 
fortable;  and  with  Bulger  saying,  "Never  fooled 
your  Uncle  Cuthbert  for  a  minute.  Did  little 
old  George  W.  Wisenham  have  you  doped  out 
right  or  not?  Ask  me,  ask  me;  wake  me  up  any 
time  in  the  night  and  ask  me!" 

Tuesday  afternoon  he  had  walked  with  the 
flapper  in  the  park  and  had  learned  of  many 


262  BUNKER  BEAN 

things  going  forward  with  solely  his  welfare  in 
view  —  little  old  house  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
just  perfectly  scenery  —  little  old  next  year's 
car  —  little  old  going-away  rag  —  little  old 
perfectly  just  knew  it  the  first  moment  she  saw 
him  —  little  old  new  rags  to  be  bought  in  Paris  — 
and  sister  only  going  to  Asheville  on  hers. 

And  the  dinner  in  town,  where  he  had  seemed  to 
make  an  excellent  impression,  only  that  Mrs. 
Breede  persisted  in  behaving  as  if  the  body  was 
still  upstairs  and  she  must  be  brave,  brave!  And 
Grandma,  the  Demon,  confiding  to  him  over  her 
after-dinner  cigarette  that  he  was  in  for  it  now, 
though  she  hadn't  dared  tell  him  so  before;  but 
he'd  find  that  out  for  himself  soon  enough  if  he 
wasn't  very  careful  about  thwarting  her.  It 
made  her  perfectly  furious  to  be  thwarted. 

Nor  did  he  fail  to  note  that  the  stricken  mother 
was  distinctly  blaming  the  Demon  for  the  whole 
dreadful  affair.  Her  child  had  been  allowed  to 
associate  with  a  grandmother  who  had  gone  rad 
ical  at  an  age  when  most  of  her  sex  simmer  in  a 
gentle  fireside  conservatism  and  die  respectably. 
But  it  was  too  late  now.  She  couldonly  be  brave, 
brave ! 

And  he  was  to  be  there  at  nine  sharp,  which  was 
too  early,  but  the  flapper  could  be  su,re  only  after 
he  came  that  nothing  had  happened  to  him,  that 
he  had  neither  failed  in  business,  been  poisoned 
by  some  article  of  food  not  on  her  list,  nor  diverted 
by  that  possible  Other  One  who  seemed  always  to 
lurk  in  the  flapper's  mental  purlieus.  She  just 


BUNKER  BEAN  263 

perfectly  wanted  him  there  an  hour  too  early; 
all  there  was  about  it! 

These  events  had  beaten  upbn  him  with  the 
unhurried  but  telling  impact  of  an  ocean  tide. 
Two  facts  were  salient  from  the  mass:  whatever 
he  had  done  he  had  done  because  of  Ram-tah; 
and  he  was  going  to  Paris,  where  he  would  see  the 
actual  tomb  of  that  other  outworn  shell  of  his. 

He  thought  he  would  not  be  able  to  sleep.  He 
had  the  night  in  which  to  pack  that  steamer  trunk. 
Leisurely  he  doffed  the  faultless  evening  garments 
—  he  was  going  to  have  a  waistcoat  pointed 
like  the  waster's,  with  four  of  those  little  shiny 
buttons,  and  studs  and  cuff-links  to  match  —  and 
donned  a  gayly  flowered  silk  robe. 

With  extreme  discomfort  he  surveyed  the  new 
steamer  trunk.  Merely  looking  at  a  steamer 
trunk  left  him  with  acute  premonitions  of  what 
the  voyage  had  in  store  for  him.  But  the  flapper 
was  the  flapper;  and  it  was  the  only  way  ever  to 
see  that  tomb. 

The  packing  began,  the  choice  garments  were 
one  by  one  neatly  folded.  A  light  tan  overcoat 
hung  in  Ram-tah's  closet,  back  of  the  case. 
Ram-tah  was  dragged  forth  and  for  the  moment 
Jay  prone.  He  was  to  be  left  in  the  locked  closet 
until  a  more  suitable  housing  could  be  provided, 
and  Cassidy  had  been  especially  warned  not  to  let 
the  steam-heated  apartment  take  fire. 

He  found  the  coat  and  returned  to  the  half- 
packed  trunk  in  the  bedroom  where  he  resumed 
his  wonderful  task,  stopping  at  intervals  for 


264  BUNKER  BEAN 

always  futile  efforts  at  realization  of  this  mad 
impossibility.  It  was  all  Ram-tah.  Nothing 
but  that  kingly  manifestation  of  himself  could 
have  brought  him  up  to  the  thing.  He  dropped 
a  choice  new  bit  of  haberdashery  into  the  trunk 
and  went  for  another  look  at  It  prone  on  the  floor 
in  that  other  room. 

A  long  time  he  gazed  down  at  the  still  face  — 
his  own  still  face,  the  brow  back  of  which  he  had 
once  solved  difficult  problems  of  administration, 
the  eyes  through  which  he  had  once  beheld  the 
glories  of  his  court,  the  lips  that  had  kissed  his 
long  dead  queen,  smiled  with  rapture  upon  his 
first-born  and  uttered  the  words  that  had  made 
men  call  him  wise.  It  was  not  strange  —  not 
unbelievable.  It  was  sane  and  true.  He  was 
still  a  king. 

He  reached  down  and  laid  a  tender,  a  fraternal 
hand  upon  the  brow.  The  contact  strengthened 
him,  as  always.  He  could  believe  anything  wise 
and  good  of  himself.  He  could  be  a  true  mate  to 
that  bewildering  flapper,  full  of  understanding 
kindness.  He  saw  little  intimate  moments  of 
their  life  together,  her  perplexities  over  fumed  oak 
and  patent  tubs  and  marketing  for  pure  food; 
always  her  terrific  earnestness.  Now  and  then 
he  would  laugh  at  that,  but  then  she  would  laugh 
too;  sometimes  the  flapper  seemed  to  show,  with 
an  engaging  little  sense  of  shame,  that  she  just 
perfectly  knew  how  funny  she  was. 

But  she  was  staunch;  she  had  perfectly  well 
known  the  very  first  moment  she  saw  him.  And 


BUNKER  BEAN  265 

she  had  never  spoiled  it  all,  like  that  other  one  in 
Chicago,  by  asking  him  if  he  was  fond  of  Nature 
and  Good  Music  and  such  things.  The  flapper 
was  capable  but  quiet.  With  his  hand  still  upon 
Ram-tah's  brow  in  that  half-timid,  strange  caress, 
he  was  flooded  with  a  sudden  new  gladness  about 
the  flapper.  She  was  dear,  if  you  came  right 
down  to  it.  And  Ram-tah  had  brought  her  to 
him.  He  erected  himself  to  look  down  once  more. 
They  knew,  those  two  selves;  understood  each 
other  and  life. 

It  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  Ram- 
tah,  too,  must  have  liked  dogs,  must  have  been 
inexpressibly  moved  by  the  chained  souls  that 
were  always  trying  to  speak  from  their  brown 
eyes.  He  looked  over  to  Nap,  who  fiercely  battled 
with  a  sofa  cushion,  and  was  now  disembowelling 
it  through  a  rent  in  the  cover.  He  wondered  what 
Ram-tah's  favourite  dog  had  been  like. 

He  went  back  to  the  bedroom  to  finish  his 
packing.  Ram-tah  could  lie  until  the  moment 
came  to  lock  him  again  in  the  closet,  to  leave  him 
once  more  in  a  seclusion  to  which  he  had  long 
been  accustomed. 

He  worked  leisurely,  stowing  those  almost 
advanced  garments  so  that  they  should  show  as 
few  wrinkles  as  possible  after  their  confinement. 
Occasionally  Nap  diverted  his  thoughts  by  some 
louder  growl  than  usual  in  the  outer  room,  or  by 
some  noisier  scramble. 

The  trunk  was  packed  and  locked  for  the  final 
time.  Thrice  had  it  been  unlocked  and  opened 


266  BUNKER  BEAN 

to  receive  slight  forgotten  objects.  The  last  to 
be  placed  directly  under  the  lid  was  the  entirely 
scarlet  cravat.  He  was  equal  to  wearing  it  now, 
but  a  sense  of  the  morrow's  proprieties  deterred 
him.  The  stricken  mother!  In  deference  to  her 
he  laid  out  for  the  morning's  wear  the  nearest 
to  a  black  cravat  that  he  possessed,  an  article 
surely  unassuming  enough  to  be  no  offence  in  a 
house  of  mourning. 

He  fastened  the  straps  of  the  trunk  and  sighed 
in  relief.  It  was  a  steamer  trunk,  and  he  was  to 
sail  on  a  little  old  steamer,  but  other  people  had 
survived  that  ordeal.  Ram-tah  would  have  met 
it  boldly.  Ram-tah! 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  attention  attracted 
to  Nap,  who  had  for  some  moments  been  more 
than  usually  vocal.  In  a  far  corner  Nap  had  a 
roundish  object  between  his  paws  and  his  sharp 
teeth  tore  viciously  at  it.  He  looked  up  and 
growled  in  fierce  pretence  that  his  master  also 
wished  to  gnaw  this  delectable  object. 

A  moment  Bean  stood  there,  looking,  looking. 
Slowly  certain  details  cleared  to  his  vision:  the 
details  of  an  unspeakable  atrocity.  He  felt  his 
knees  grow  weak,  and  clutched  at  the  doorway 
for  support. 

The  body  of  Ram-tah  was  out  of  its  case  and 
half  across  the  room,  yards  of  the  swathed  linen 
unfurled;  but,  more  terrible  than  all,  the  head  of 
Ram-tah  was  not  where  it  should  have  been. 

In  the  far  corner  the  crouching  Nap  gnawed  at 
that  head,  tearing,  mutilating,  desecrating. 


BUNKER  BEAN  267 

"Napoleon!"  It  was  a  cry  of  little  volume, 
but  tense  and  terrible.  Napoleon,  destroyer  of 
kings!  In  this  moment  he  once  more  put  the 
creature's  full  name  upon  him.  The  dog  found 
the  name  alarming;  perceived  that  he  had  com 
mitted  some  one  of  those  offences  for  which  he  was 
arbitrarily  punished.  He  relaxed  the  stout  jaws, 
crawled  slinkingly  to  the  couch,  and  leaped  upon 
it.  Once  there,  he  whimpered  protestingly.  One 
of  the  few  clear  beliefs  he  had  about  a  perplexing 
social  system  was  that  nothing  hurtful  could  be 
fall  him  once  he  had  gained  that  couch.  It  was 
sanctuary. 

Bean's  next  emotion  was  sympathy  for  the 
dog's  fright.  He  tottered  across  to  the  couch, 
mumbling  little  phrases  of  reassurance  to  the 
abject  Nap.  He  sat  down  beside  him,  and  put  a 
kindly  arm  about  him. 

"Why,  why,  Nappy!  Yes,  'sail  right,  yes,  he 
was  —  most  beautiful  doggie  in  the  whole  world; 
yes,  he  was." 

He  hardly  dared  look  toward  the  scene  of  the 
outrage.  The  calamity  was  overwhelming,  but 
how  could  dogs  know  any  better?  Timidly,  at 
length,  he  raised  his  eyes,  first  to  where  the  frag 
mentary  head  lay,  then  to  the  torn  body. 

Something  about  the  latter  electrified  him. 
He  leaped  from  the  couch  and  seized  an  end  of  the 
linen  that  bound  the  mummy.  He  pulled,  and  the 
linen  unwound.  He  curiously  surveyed  something 
at  his  feet.  It  was  a  tightly  rolled  wad  of  ex 
celsior.  The  swathing  of  linen  —  he  had  un- 


268  BUNKER  BEAN 

wound  it  to  where  the  hands  should  have  been 
folded  on  the  breast  —  had  enclosed  excelsior. 

Dazedly  he  looked  into  the  empty  case.  Upon 
one  of  the  new  boards  he  saw  marked  with  the 
careless  brush  of  some  shipping-clerk,  "Watkins 
&  Co.,  Hartford,  Conn." 

Again,  as  with  the  unstable  lilac-bushes,  his 
world  spun  about  him;  it  drew  in  and  darkened. 
He  had  the  sensation  of  a  grain  of  dust  sucked 
down  a  vast  black  funnel. 

Outside  the  quiet  room,  the  city  went  on  its 
ruthless,  noisy  way.  In  there  where  dynasties 
had  fallen  and  a  monarch  lay  prone,  a  spotted  dog 
sporting  with  a  papier-mache  something,  came 
suddenly  on  a  cold  hand  flung  out  on  the  rug. 
Nap  instantly  forsook  the  sham  for  the  real,  de 
serted  the  head  of  Ram-tah,  and  laved  Bean's 
closed  eyes  with  a  lolloping  pink  tongue. 


XIV 

THE  next  morning  at  eight-thirty  the  door 
of  the  steam-heated  apartment  resounded 
to    sharp    knocking.     There    being  no  re 
sponse,  the  knocking  was  repeated  and  prolonged. 
Retreating  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  hallway. 
Five  minutes  later  a  key  rattled  in  the  door  and 
Cassidy  entered,  followed  by  the  waster. 

Bean  was  discovered  in  a  flowered  dressing- 
gown  gazing  open-eyed  at  the  shut  door  of  a  closet. 
He  sat  on  the  couch  and  one  of  his  arms  clasped  a 
sleeping  dog.  The  floor  was  littered  with  wisps 
of  excelsior. 

"My  word,  old  top,  had  to  have  the  chap  let 
me  into  your  diggin's  you  know.  You  were  sleep 
ing  like  the  dead."  The  waster  was  bustling  and 
breezy. 

"Busy,"  said  Bean.  He  arose  and  went  into 
the  hall  where  Cassidy  stood. 

"He  would  have  in,"  explained  Cassidy.  "Say 
th'  wor-r-d  if  he's  no  frind,  an'  he'll  have  out  agin. 
I'll  put  him  so.  'T  would  not  be  a  refined  thing 
to  do,  but  nicissary  if  needed." 

"'S  all  right,"  said  Bean.  "Friend  of  mine." 
He  closed  the  door  on  Cassidy. 

Inside,  he  found  the  waster  interestedly  poking 
with  his  stick  at  a  roundish  object  on  the  floor. 

269 


270  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Dog's  been  at  it,"  explained  the  waster 
brightly.  "What's  the  idea?  Private  theatri 
cals?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bean,  "private  theatricals,"  and 
resumed  his  place  on  the  couch,  staring  dully  at 
the  closet  door. 

"But,  look  here,  old  chap,  you  must  liven  up. 
She  would  have  it  I  should  come  for  you.  My 
word!  I  believe  you're  funking!  You  look 
absurdly  rotten  like  it,  you  know." 

"Toothache,  right  across  here,"  muttered  Bean. 
"Have  to  put  it  off." 

"But  that's  not  done,  old  top;  really  it's  not 
done,  you  know.  It  ...  it  ...  one 
doesn't  do  it  at  all,  you  know." 

"Never?"  asked  Bean,  brightening  a  little  with 
alarm. 

"Jolly  well  never,"  insisted  the  waster;  "not 
for  anything  a  dentist-fellow  could  manage. 
Come  now!" 

Bean  was  listless  once  more,  deaf,  unseeing. 

"Righto,"  said  the  waster.  "Bachelor  dinner 
last  night  .  .  .  yes?" 

The  situation  had  become  intelligible  to  him. 
He  found  the  bathroom,  and  from  it  came  the 
sound  of  running  water.  He  had  the  air  of  a 
Master  of  Revels. 

"Into  it  —  only  thing  to  do!" 

He  led  Bean  to  the  brink  of  the  icy  pool  and 
skilfully  flayed  him  of  the  flowered  gown.  He  was 
thorough,  the  waster.  He'd  known  chaps  to  pre 
tend  to  get  in  by  making  a  great  splashing  with 


BUNKER   BEAN  271 

one  hand,  after  they  were  left  alone.  He  over 
came  a  few  of  the  earlier  exercises  in  jiu-jitsu  and 
committed  Bean's  form  to  the  deep. 

"Righto!"  he  exclaimed.  "Does  it  every  time. 
Shiver  all  you  like.  Good  for  you!  Now  then 
—  clothes !  Clothes  and  things,  Man !  Oh,  here 
they  are  to  be  sure!  How  stupid  of  me!  Feel 
better  already,  yes?  Knew  it.  Studs  in  shirt. 
My  word!  Studs!  Studs!  There!  Let  me  tie 
it.  Here!  Look  alive  man!  She  would  have  it. 
She  must  have  known  you.  There!" 

He  had  finished  by  clamping  Bean's  hat  tightly 
about  his  head.  Bean  was  thinking  that  the  was 
ter  possessed  more  executive  talent  than  Grandma 
had  given  him  credit  for;  also  that  he  would 
find  an  excuse  to  break  away  once  they  were  out 
side;  also  that  Balthasar  was  keenly  witty.  Bal- 
thasar  had  said  it  would  disintegrate  if  handled. 

He  would  leave  Nap  with  Cassidy.  He  would 
return  for  him  that  night,  then  flee.  He  would  go 
back  to  Wellsville,  which  he  should  never  have 
left. 

The  waster  had  him  in  the  car  outside,  a  firm 
grasp  on  one  of  his  arms. 

"I'll  allow  you  only  one,"  said  the  waster  judi 
cially  as  the  car  moved  off.  "I  know  where  the 
chap  makes  them  perfectly  —  brings  a  mummy 
back  to  life " 

"A    mum  —  what    mummy?"     asked     Bean 
dreamily. 

"Your  own,  if  you  had  one,  you  silly  juggins!" 

Bean  winced,  but  made  no  reply. 


272  BUNKER  BEAN 

The  car  halted  before  an  uptown  hotel. 

"Come  on!"  said  the  waster. 

"  Bring  it  out,"  suggested  Bean,  devising  flight. 

The  waster  prepared  to  use  force. 

"Quit.     I'll  go,"  said  Bean. 

He  was  before  a  polished  bar,  the  white-jacketed 
attendant  of  which  not  only  recognized  the  waster 
but  seemed  to  divine  his  errand. 

"Two,"  commanded  the  waster.  The  attend 
ant  had  already  reached  for  a  bottle  of  absinthe, 
and  now  busied  himself  with  two  eggs,  a  shaker, 
and  cracked  ice. 

"White  of  an  egg,  delicate  but  nourishing  after 
bachelor  dinners,"  said  the  waster  expertly. 

Bean,  in  the  polished  mirror,  regarded  a  pallid 
and  shrinking  youth  whom  he  knew  to  be  himself 
—  not  a  reincarnation  of  the  Egyptian  king,  but 
just  Bunker  Bean.  He  could  not  endure  a  long 
look  at  the  thing,  and  allowed  his  gaze  to  wander 
to  the  panelled  woodwork  of  the  bar. 

"Fumed  oak,"  he  suggested  to  the  waster. 

But  the  waster  pushed  one  of  the  slender- 
stemmed  glasses  toward  him. 

"There's  the  life-line,  old  top;  cling  to  it! 
Here's  a  go!" 

Bean  drank.  The  beverage  was  icy,  but  it 
warmed  him  to  life.  The  mere  white  of  an  egg 
mixed  with  a  liquid  of  such  perfect  innocence  that 
he  recalled  it  from  his  soothing-syrup  days. 

"Have  one  with  me,"  he  said  in  what  he  knew 
to  be  a  faultless  bar  manner. 

"Oh,  I  say  old  top,"  the  waster  protested. 


BUNKER  BEAN  273 

''One,"  said  Bean  stubbornly. 

The  attendant  was  again  busy. 

"  Better  be  careful,"  warned  the  waster. 
"Those  things  come  to  you  and  steal  their  hands 
into  yours  like  little  innocent  children,  but ". 

They  drank.  Bean  felt  himself  bold  for  any 
situation.  He  would  carry  the  farce  through  if 
they  insisted  on  it.  He  no  longer  planned  to  elude 
the  waster.  They  were  in  the  speeding  car. 

"Fumed  eggs  I"  murmured  Bean  approvingly. 

They  were  inside  that  desolated  house,  the  door 
closed  fatefully  upon  them.  The  waster  disap 
peared,  Bean  heard  the  flapper's  voice  calling 
cheerily  to  him  from  above  stairs.  A  footman 
disapprovingly  ushered  him  to  the  midst  of  an  im 
mense  drawing-room  of  most  ponderous  grandeur, 
and  left  him  to  perish. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  tried  to  clear 
his  mind  about  this  enormity  he  was  going  to  com 
mit.  False  pretenses!  Nothing  less.  He  was 
not  a  king  at  all.  He  was  Bunker  Bean,  a  stenog 
rapher,  whose  father  drove  an  express  wagon, 
and  whose  grandmother  had  smoked  a  pipe.  He 
had  never  been  anything  more,  nor  ever  would  be. 
And  here  he  was  .  .  .  pretending. 

No  wonder  Julia  had  fussed!  She  had  seen 
through  him.  How  they  would  all  scorn  him  if 
they  knew  what  that  scoundrelly  Balthasar  knew. 
He'd  made  money,  but  he  had  no  right  to  it.  He 
had  made  that  under  false  pretenses,  too,  believing 
money  would  come  naturally  to  a  king.  Would 
they  find  him  out  at  once,  or  not  until  it  was  too 


274  BUNKER  BEAN 

late?  He  shudderingly  recalled  a  crisis  in  the 
ceremony  of  marriage  where  some  one  is  invited  to 
make  trouble,  urged  to  come  forward  and  say  if 
there  isn't  some  reason  why  this  man  and  this 
woman  shouldn't  be  married  at  all.  Could  he 
live  through  that?  Suppose  a  policeman  rushed 
in,  crying,  "I  forbid  the  banns!  The  man  is  an 
impostor!"  He  seemed  to  remember  that  banns 
were  often  forbidden  in  novels.  Then  would  he 
indeed  be  a  thing  for  contemptuous  laughter. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  this  dismal  foreboding,  he  was 
presently  conscious  of  an  unusual  sense  of  well- 
being.  It  had  been  growing  since  they  stopped 
for  those  eggs,  in  that  fumed  oak  place.  What 
about  the  Corsican?  Better  have  been  him  than 
no  one!  He  would  look  at  that  tomb.  Then  he 
would  know.  He  was  rather  clinging  to  the  idea 
of  the  Corsican.  It  gave  him  courage.  Still,  if 
he  could  get  out  peacefully.  .  .  . 

He  stepped  lightly  to  the  hall  and  was  on  the 
point  of  seizing  his  hat  when  the  flapper  called 
down  to  him. 

"You  just  perfectly  don't  leave  this  house 
again!" 

"Not  going  to,"  he  answered  guiltily.  "Look 
ing  to  see  what  size  hat  I  wear.  Fumed  eggs," 
he  concluded  triumphantly. 

He  was  not  again  left  alone.  The  waster  came 
back  and  supposed  he  would  do  some  golfing 
"over  across." 

Bean  loathed  golf  and  gathered  the  strange 
power  to  say  so. 


BUNKER  BEAN  275 

"Sooner  be  a  mail-carrier  than  a  golf-player," 
he  answered  stoutly.  "Looks  more  fun,  any 
way." 

"My  word!"  exclaimed  the  waster,  "aren't  you 
even  keen  on  watching  it?" 

"Sooner  watch  a  lot  of  Italians  tearing  up  a 
street-car  track,"  Bean  persisted. 

"Oh,  come!"  protested  the  waster. 

"Like  to  have  another  fumed  egg,"  said  Bean. 

"YouVe  had  one  too  many,"  declared  the 
waster,  knowing  that  no  sober  man  could  speak 
thus  of  the  sport  of  kings. 

Grandma,  the  Demon,  entered  and  portent 
ously  shook  hands  with  him.  She  seemed  to  have 
discovered  that  marriage  was  very  serious. 

"Fumed  eggs,"  said  Bean,  regarding  her 
shrewdly. 

"What?"  demanded  Grandma. 

"Fumed  eggs,  hundred  p'cent  efficient,"  he 
declared  stoutly. 

The  Demon  eyed  him  more  closely. 

"My  grandmother  smoked,  too,"  said  Bean, 
"but  I  never  went  in  for  it  much." 

"U-u-u-mmm!"  said  the  Demon.  It  was  to  be 
seen  that  she  felt  puzzled. 

Breede  slunk  into  the  room,  garbed  in  an  unac 
customed  frock  coat.  He  went  through  the  form 
of  shaking  hands  with  Bean. 

Bean  felt  a  sudden  necessity  to  tell  Breede  a 
lot  of  things.  He  wished  to  confide  in  the  man. 

"Principle  of  the  thing's  all  I  cared  about,"  he 
began.  "Anybody  make  money  that  wants  to 


276  BUNKER  BEAN 

be  a  Wall  Street  crook  and  take  it  away  from  the 
tired  business  man.  What  I  want  to  be  is  one  of 
the  idle  rich  .  .  .  only  not  idle  much  of  the 
time,  you  know.  Good  major  league  club  for 
mine.  Been  looking  the  ground  over;  sound 
Vestment;  keep  you  out  of  bad  company,  lots 
time  to  read  good  books." 

"Hanh!     Wha's  'at?"  exploded  Breede. 

"Fumed  eggs,"  said  Bean,  feeling  witty.  He 
affected  to  laugh  at  his  own  jest  as  he  perceived 
that  the  mourning  mother  had  entered  the  room. 
Breede  drew  cautiously  away  from  him.  Mrs. 
Breede  nodded  to  him  bravely. 

He  mentioned  the  name  of  the  world's  greatest 
pitcher,  with  an  impulse  to  take  the  woman  down 
a  bit. 

"Get  our  shirts  same  place;  he's  going  to  have 
a  suit  just  like  this  —  no,  like  another  one  I  have 
in  that  little  old  steamer  trunk." 

He  was  aware  that  they  all  eyed  him  too  closely. 
The  waster  winked  at  him.  Then  he  found  him 
self  shaking  hands  with  a  soothing  old  gentleman 
in  clerical  garb  who  called  him  his  young  friend 
and  said  that  this  was  indeed  a  happy  moment. 

The  three  Breedes  and  the  waster  stood  apart, 
studying  him  queerly.  He  was  feeling  an  embar 
rassed  need  to  make  light  conversation,  and  he  was 
still  conscious  of  that  strange  power  to  make  it. 
He  was  going  to  tell  the  old  gentleman,  whose 
young  friend  he  was,  that  fumed  eggs  were  a  hun 
dred  p'cent  efficient. 

But  the   flapper  saved   him  from    that.     She 


BUNKER  BEAN  277 

came  in,  quiet  but  businesslike,  and|  in  a  low  yet 
distinct  voices  aid  she  wished  it  to  be  perfectly 
over  at  once.  She  did  not  relax  her  grasp  of 
Bean's  arm  after  she  approached  him,  and  he  pres 
ently  knew  that  something  solemn  was  going  on 
in  which  he  was  to  be  seriously  involved. 

"Say,  'I  do,'"  muttered  the  old  gentleman,  and 
Bean  did  so.  The  flapper  had  not  to  be  told. 

There  followed  a  blurred  and  formal  shaking  of 
his  hand  by  those  present,  and  the  big  sister  whom 
he  had  not  noticed  before  came  up  and  kissed  him. 

Then  he  was  conscious  of  the  flapper  still  at 
his  side.  He  turned  to  her  and  was  amazed  to 
discover  that  she  was  blinking  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"There,  there!"  he  muttered  soothingly,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms  quite  as  if  they  were  alone. 
He  held  her  closely  a  moment,  with  little  mumbled 
endearments,  softly  patting  her  cheek. 

"There,  there!  No  one  ever  going  to  hurt  you. 
You're  dear;  yes,  you  are!" 

He  was  much  embarrassed  to  discover  those 
staring  others  still  present.  But  the  flapper 
swiftly  revived.  It  seemed  to  be  perfectly  over 
for  the  flapper.  She  announced  that  every  one 
must  hurry. 

Hurriedly,  with  every  one,  it  seemed,  babbling 
nonsense  of  remote  matters,  they  sat  at  a  table, 
and  ate  of  cold  food  from  around  a  bed  of  flowers. 
Bean  ate  frankly.  He  was  hungry,  but  he  took  his 
part  in  the  talk  as  a  gentleman  should. 

They  were  toasting  the  bride  in  champagne. 


278  BUNKER  BEAN 

"  Never  drink,"  protested  Bean  to  the  prof 
fered  glass. 

"Won't  happen  every  day,  old  top,"  suggested 
the  waster. 

He  drank.  The  sparkling  stuff  brought  him 
new  courage.  He  drained  the  glass. 

"I  knew  they  were  trying  to  keep  me  off  that 
board  of  directors,"  he  confided  to  Breede, 
"specially  that  oldest  one." 

"That  your  first  drink  s'morning?"  asked 
Breede  in  discreet  tones. 

"First  drink  I  ever  took.  Had  two  eggs  's 
morning." 

"What  board  of  directors?"  asked  Breede 
suspiciously. 

"Fed'l  Express.  I  wanted  that  stock  for  a 
technical  purpose  —  so  I  could  get  on  board  of 
directors." 

Breede  looked  across  the  table  to  Grandma. 
There  seemed  to  be  alarm  in  his  face. 

"Given  it  up,  though,"  continued  Bean.  "Can't 
be  robbing  tired  business  men.  Rather  be  a  base 
ball  king  if  you  come  down  to  that.  I'll  own  three 
four  major  league  clubs  before  year's  out.  See  'f 
I  don't!  'S  only  kind  of  king  I  want  to  be  — 
wake  me  up  any  time  in  the  night  and  ask  me  — 
old  George  W.  Baseball  King.  'S  my  name.  I 
been  other  kings  enough.  Nothing  in  it.  You 
wouldn't  believe  it  if  I  told  you  I  was  a  king  of 
Egypt  once,  'way  back,  thous'n's  years  before  you 
were  ever  born.  I  had  my  day;  pomps  and  at 
tentions  and  powers.  But  I  was  laid  away  in  a. 


BUNKER  BEAN  279 

mummy  case  —  did  that  in  those  days  —  thou- 
s'n's  and  thous'n's  of  years  before  you  were  ever 
born  —  an'  that  time  I  was  Napoleon.  .  .  . 

He  stopped  suddenly,  feeling  that  the  room  had 
grown  still.  He  had  been  hearing  a  voice,  and 
the  voice  was  his  own.  What  had  he  said?  Had 
he  told  them  he  was  nothing,  after  all  ?  He  gazed 
from  face  to  face  with  consternation.  They 
looked  at  him  so  curiously.  There  was  an  embar 
rassing  pause. 

The  flapper,  he  saw,  was  patting  his  hand  at 
the  table's  edge. 

"No  one  ever  hurt  you  while  I'm  around,"  he 
said,  and  then  he  glared  defiantly  at  the  others. 
The  old  gentleman,  whose  young  friend  he  was, 
began  an  anecdote,  saying  that  of  course  he 
couldn't  render  the  Irish  dialect,  also  that  if  they 
had  heard  it  before  they  were  to  be  sure  and  let 
him  know.  Apparently  no  one  had  heard  it  be 
fore,  although  Breede  left  the  table  for  the  tele 
phone. 

Bean  kept  the  flapper's  hand  in  his.  And  when 
the  anecdote  was  concluded  everybody  arose 
under  cover  of  the  applause,  and  they  were  in  that 
drawing-room  again  where  the  thing  had  happened. 

The  waster  chattered  volubly  to  every  one. 
Grandma  and  the  bride's  mother  were  in  earnest 
but  subdued  talk  in  a  far  corner.  Breede  came 
to  them. 

"Chap's  plain  dotty,"  said  Breede.  "Knew 
something  was  wrong." 

"Your  mother's  doing,"  said  Mrs.  Breede. 


280  BUNKER  BEAN 

"U-u-u-mm!"  said  the  Demon.  "I'll  go  with 
them." 

"I  shall  also  go  with  my  child,"  said  the  mother. 
"James,  you  will  go  too." 

But  Breede  had  acted  without  waiting  to  talk. 

"Other  car '11  be  here,  'n'  I  telephoned  for  quar 
ters  on  boat.  'S  full  up,  but  they'll  manage. 
Chap  might  cut  her  throat." 

"U-u-u-mm!"  said  the  Demon. 

"Half  pas'  ten,"  reminded  Breede.     "Hurry!" 

Bean  had  accosted  the  waster. 

"Always  take  fumed  eggs  for  breakfast,"  he 
cautioned.  "Of  course,  little  fruit  an'  tea  an' 
things." 

"Your  father's  had  a  sudden  call  to  Paris. 
We're  going  with  him,"  said  the  Demon,  appearing 
bonneted. 

"What  boat?"  demanded  the  flapper  in  quick 
alarm. 

"Your's,"  said  the  Demon. 

"Jolly  party,  all  together,"  said  Bean  cordially. 
"He  coming,  too?"  He  pointed  to  the  old  gentle 
man,  but  this  it  seemed  had  not  been  thought 
of. 

"He  better  come  too,"  insisted  Bean.  "I'm 
his  young  friend,  and  this  is  indeed  a  happy  mo 
ment.  Jus'  little  ol'  las'  year's  steamer." 

"You're  tagging,"  accused  the  flapper  vi 
ciously,  turning  to  the  Demon. 

Bean  awoke  late  that  night,  believing  he  was 
dead  —  that  he  had  fallen  in  sleep  and  been 


BUNKER  BEAN  281 

laid  unto  his  fathers.  But  the  narrow  grave 
was  unstable.  It  heaved  and  rolled  as  if  to 
expel  him. 

Slowly  he  remembered.  First  he  identified 
his  present  location.  He  was  in  an  upper  berth 
of  that  little  old  steamer.  Outside  a  little  round 
window  was  the  whole  big  ocean  and  beneath 
him  slept  a  man  from  Hartford,  Conn.  He  had 
caught  the  city's  name  on  the  end  of  the  man's 
steamer  trunk  and  been  enraged  by  it.  Hartford 
was  a  city  of  rascals.  The  man  himself  looked 
capable  of  any  infamy.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  and 
wore  closely  trimmed  side- whiskers  of  a  vicious 
iron  gray.  He  regarded  Bean  with  manifest 
hostility  and  had  ostentatiously  locked  a  suit 
case  upon  his  appearance. 

So  much  for  his  whereabouts.  How  had  he 
come  there?  Laboriously,  he  went  over  the 
events  of  the  afternoon.  They  were  hazy,  but 
certain  peaks  jutted  above  the  haze.  They  were 
"tagged,"  as  the  flapper  had  surmised  they  were 
going  to  be.  Aboard  the  little  old  steamer  had 
appeared  Breede  and  Julia  and  the  Demon.  They 
had  called  the  flapper  aside  and  apparently  told 
her  something  for  her  own  good,  though  the  flap 
per  had  not  liked  it,  and  had  told  them  with  much 
spirit  that  they  were  to  perfectly  mind  their  own 
affairs. 

Bean  had  fled  into  the  throng  on  deck.  His  hat 
had  received  many  dents,  and  when  he  emerged 
to  a  clear  space  at  the  far  end  of  the  boat  he  had 
discovered  that  his  perfectly  new  watch  was  gone. 


282  BUNKER  BEAN 

He  was  being  put  upon,  and  meekly  submitting  to 
it  as  in  that  other  time  when  he  had  not  believed 
himself  to  be  somebody.  He  stared  moodily  over 
the  rail  as  the  little  old  steamer  moved  out. 
Thousands  of  people  on  the  dock  were  waving 
handkerchiefs  and  hats.  They  seemed  to  be 
waving  directly  at  him  and  yelling.  Above  it  all, 
he  was  back  in  the  bird-and-animal  store,  hearing 
the  parrot  shriek  over  and  over,  "Oh,  what  a  fool! 
Oh,  what  a  fool!" 

He  made  an  adventurous  way  through  all  kinds 
of  hurried  people,  back  to  that  group  of  queerly 
behaving  Breedes.  The  flapper  was  showing  traces 
of  tears,  but  also  a  considerable  acrimony.  She 
was  threatening  to  tell  the  captain  to  just  per 
fectly  turn  the  little  old  steamer  back.  But  it 
came  to  nothing.  At  least  to  nothing  more  than 
Bean's  sharing  the  stateroom  of  the  Hartford 
man,  who  had  covered  the  lower  berth  with  his 
belongings  so  that  there  might  be  no  foolish  mis 
take. 

And  that  was  because  there  had  been  no  provi 
sion  made  on  the  little  old  steamer  for  this  invasion 
of  casual  Breedes.  Pops  and  Moms  had  secured 
an  officer's  room;  the  Demon,  rather  than  sit  up 
in  the  smoking-room  of  nights,  had  consented  to 
share  the  flapper's  suite;  and  Bean  had  been 
taken  in  charge  by  a  cold-blooded  steward  who 
left  him  in  the  narrow  quarters  of  the  Hartford 
person. 

And  there,  in  the  far  night,  he  was  wishing  he 
anight  be  back  in  the  steam-heated  apartment  with 


BUNKER  BEAN  283 

Nap.  He  had  a  violent  headache,  and  he  had 
awakened  from  a  dream  of  falling  into  a  well  of 
cool,  clear  water  of  which  he  thirstily  drank.  His 
narrow  bed  behaved  abominably,  rolling  him  from 
side  to  side,  then  letting  his  head  sink  to  some  far- 
off  terrifying  depth.  And  there  was  no  way  of 
leaving  that  little  old  steamer  .  .  .  not  for 
a  man  who  couldn't  swim  a  stroke. 

So  he  suffered  for  long  miserable  hours.  Light 
broke  through  the  little  round  windows,  and  out 
side  he  could  see  the  appalling  waste  of  water, 
foaming,  seething,  rising  to  engulf  him.  He 
couldn't  recall  mounting  to  that  high  place  where 
he  had  slept.  He  wondered  if  the  callous  steward 
would  sometime  come  to  take  him  down.  Per 
haps  the  steward  would  forget. 

The  man  from  Hartford  bestirred  himself  and 
was  presently  shaving  before  the  small  glass. 
Bean  looked  sullenly  down  at  him.  The  man  was 
running  a  wicked-looking  razor  perilously  about 
his  restless  Adam's  apple.  He  was  also  lightly 
humming  "The  Holy  City." 

"Watkins,"  said  Bean  distinctly,  recalling  the 
name  that  had  revealed  the  fictitious  and  Hart 
ford  origin  of  It. 

"Adams,"  said  the  man,  breaking  off  his  song 
and  tightening  a  leathery  cheek  for  the  razor. 

"Adam's  apple,"  said  Bean,  scornfully.  "Wat- 
kins!" 

The  man  glanced  at  him  and  painfully  twisted 
up  a  corner  of  his  mouth  while  he  applied  the  razor 
to  the  other  corner.  But  he  did  not  speak. 


284  BUNKER  BEAN 

"Think  there's  a  doctor  on  this  little  old 
steamer?"  demanded  Bean. 

The  man  from  Hartford  laid  down  his  weapon 
and  began  to  lave  his  face. 

"I  believe,"  he  spluttered,  "that  medical  at 
tendance  is  provided  for  those  still  in  mortal 


error." 


:°S'  at  so?"  demanded  Bean,  sullenly. 

The  man  achieved  another  bar  of  "The  Holy 
City,"  and  fondly  dusted  his  face  with  talcum 
powder,  critically  observing  the  effect. 

"If  you  will  go  into  the  silence,"  he  at  length 
said,  "and  there  hold  the  thought  of  the  all-good, 
you  will  be  freed  from  your  delusion." 

"Humph!"  said  Bean  and  turned  his  face  from 
the  Hartford  man. 

The  latter  locked  his  razor  into  a  toilet-case, 
locked  the  toilet-case  into  a  suit-case,  and  seemed 
to  debate  locking  the  suit-case  into  a  little  old 
steamer  trunk.  Deciding,  however,  that  his 
valuables  were  sufficiently  protected,  and  that 
nothing  was  left  out  to  excite  the  cupidity  of  a 
man  to  whom  he  had  not  been  properly  intro 
duced,  the  person  from  Hartford  went  forth  with  a 
final  retort. 

"'As  a  man  thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he!"f 

"'S'  at  so?"  said  Bean  insolently  to  the  closed 
door. 

He  roused  himself  and  descended  precariously 
from  his  shelf.  Once  upon  his  feet  he  was  con 
vinced  that  the  ship  was  foundering.  He  hur 
riedly  dressed  and  adjusted  a  life-belt  from  one  of 


"Lumbago! "  said  Bean,  both  hands  upon  the  life-belt 


BUNKER  BEAN  285 

a  number  he  saw  behind  a  rack.  Over  the  belt 
he  put  on  a  serviceable  rain-coat.  It  seemed  to  be 
the  coat  to  wear. 

Outside  he  plunged  through  narrow  corridors 
until  he  came  to  a  stairway.  He  mounted  this 
to  be  as  far  away  from  the  ocean  as  possible.  He 
came  out  upon  a  deck  where  people  were  strangely 
not  excited  by  the  impending  disaster.  Inno 
cent  children  romped,  oblivious  to  their  fate, 
while  callous  elders  walked  the  deck  or  reclined 
in  little  old  steamer  chairs. 

He  poised  a  moment,  trying  to  prevent  the 
steamer's  deck  from  mounting  by  planting  one 
foot  firmly  upon  it.  The  device,  sound  enough  in 
mechanical  theory,  proved  unavailing.  The  vast 
hulk  sank  alternately  at  either  end,  and  to  fear 
some  depths  of  the  sea.  There  would  come  a  last 
plunge.  He  tightened  the  life-belt. 

Then,  through  the  compelling  force  of  asso 
ciated  ideas,  there  seemed  to  come  to  him  the 
faint  sweet  scent  of  lilac  blossoms  .  .  .  the 
vision  of  a  lilac  clump  revolving  both  vertically 
and  horizontally  .  .  .  the  noisome  fumes  of 
Crammer's  own  pipe. 

"Too  much  for  you,  eh?  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  It  was 
the  scoundrel  from  Hartford,  malignantly  cheer 
ful.  He  was  inhaling  a  cubeb  cigarette. 

"Lumbago!"  said  Bean,  both  hands  upon  the 
life-belt. 

"'As  a  man  thinketh,  so  is  he!'  As  simple  as 
that,"  admonished  the  other. 

Bean  groped  for  the  door  and  for  ages  fled  down 


286  BUNKER  BEAN 

blind  corridors,  vainly  seeking  that  little  old  state 
room.  He  did  not  find  it  as  quickly  as  he  should 
have;  but  he  was  there  at  last,  and  a  deft  steward 
quickly  divested  him  of  the  life-belt  and  other 
garments  for  which  there  no  longer  seemed  to  be 
any  need. 

He  lay  weakly  reflecting,  with  a  sinister  glee, 
that  the  boat  was  bound  to  sink  in  a  moment. 
He  wanted  it  to  sink.  Death  was  coming  too 
slowly. 

Later  he  knew  that  the  flapper  was  there.  She 
had  come  to  die  with  him,  though  she  was  plainly 
not  in  a  proper  state  of  mind  to  pass  on.  She  was 
saying  that  something  was  the  nerviest  piece  of 
work  she'd  ever  been  up  against,  and  that  she 
would  perfectly  just  fix  them  .  .  .  only  give 
her  a  little  time  —  they  were  snoop-cats ! 

"You'll  perfectly  manage;  jus'  leave  it  to  you," 
breathed  her  moribund  husband. 

"If  you'd  try  some  fruit  and  two  eggs,"  sug 
gested  the  flapper. 

He  raised  a  futile  hand  defensively,  and  an 
expression  of  acute  repugnance  was  to  be  seen 
upon  his  yellowed  face. 

"Please,  please  go  'way,"  he  murmured.  "Let 
Julia  do  fussing.  Go  way  off  to  other  end  of  little 
old  steamer;  stay  there." 

The  flapper  saw  it  was  no  time  for  woman's 
nursing.  Sadly  she  went. 

"Telephone  to  a  drug-store,"  demanded  Bean 
•after  her,  but  she  did  not  hear. 

He   continued   to  die,   mercifully  unmolested, 


BUNKER  BEAN  287 

until  the  man  from  Hartford  came  in  to  ascertain 
if  his  locks  had  been  tampered  with. 

"Hold  to  the  all  good!"  urged  the  man  at  a 
moment  when  it  was  too  poignantly,  too  openly 
certain  that  Bean  could  hold  to  very  little  in 
deed. 

"Uh-hah!"  gasped  Bean. 

"Go  into  the  silence,"  urged  the  man  kindly. 

"You  go "  retorted  Bean  swiftly;  but  he 

should  not  further  be  shamed  by  the  recording 
of  language  which  he  lived  to  regret. 

The  Hartford  man  said,  "  Tut-tut-tu  t ! "  and 
went  elsewhere  than  he  had  been  told  to  go. 

There  ensued  a  dreadful  time  of  alternating 
night  and  day,  with  recurrent  visions  of  the  flap 
per,  who  perfectly  knew  and  said  that  he  had  been 
eating  stuff  out  of  the  wrong  cans. 

u*As  a  man  thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he'," 
affirmed  the  Hartford  person  each  morning  as  he 
shaved. 

And  a  merry  party  gathered  in  the  adjoining 
stateroom  of  afternoons  and  sang  songs  of  the  jolly 
sailor's  life:  "My  Bonnie  Lies  Over  the  Ocean," 
and  "Sailing,  Sailing  Over  the  Bounding  Main." 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  he  made  the 
momentous  discovery  that  the  image  of  food  was 
not  repulsive  to  all  his  better  instincts.  Care 
fully  he  got  upon  his  feet  and  they  amazingly 
supported  him.  He  dressed  with  but  slight  dis 
comfort.  He  would  audaciously  experiment  upon 
himself  with  the  actual  sight  of  food.  It  was  the 
luncheon  hour. 


288  BUNKER  BEAN 

Outside  the  door  he  met  the  flapper  on  one  of 
her  daily  visits  of  inspection. 

"I  perfectly  well  knew  you'd  never  die,"  ex 
claimed  the  flapper,  and  laid  glad  hands  upon  him. 

"Where  do  they  eat?"  asked  Bean. 

"How  jolly!  We'll  eat  together,"  rejoined  the 
flapper.  "The  funniest  thing!  They  all  kept 
up  till  half  an  hour  ago.  Then  it  got  rougher  and 
rougher  and  now  they're  all  three  laid  out.  Poor 
Moms  says  it's  the  smell  of  the  rubber  matting, 
and  Granny  says  she  had  too  many  of  those  per 
fectly  whiffy  old  cigarettes,  and  Pops  says  he's 
plain  seasick.  Serves  'em  rippingly  well  right 
—  taggers!" 

She  convoyed  him  to  the  dining-room,  where' he 
was  welcomed  by  a  waiter  who  had  sorrowfully 
thought  not  to  come  to  his  notice.  He  greedily 
scanned  the  menu  card,  while  the  waiter,  of  his 
own  initiative,  placed  some  trifles  of  German  deli 
catessen  before  them. 

"It  is  a  lot  rougher,"  said  the  flapper.  "Isn't 
it  too  close  for  you  in  here?"  She  was  fixedly 
regarding  on  a  plate  before  her  a  limp,  pickled  fish 
with  one  glazed  eye  staring  aloft. 

"Never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  declared  Bean. 
"Don't  care  how  this  little  old  steamer  teeters 
now.  Got  my  sea-legs." 

"Me,  too,"  said  the  flapper,  but  with  a  curious 
diminution  of  spirit.  She  still  hung  on  the  hyp 
notic  eye  of  the  pickled  fish. 

"Ham  and  cabbage!"  said  Bean  proudly  to  the 
waiter. 


BUNKER  BEAN  289 

The  flapper  pushed  her  chair  swiftly  back. 

"Forgot  my  handkerchief,"  said  she. 

"There  it  is,"  prompted  Bean  ineptly. 

The  flapper  placed  it  to  her  lips  and  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"'S  perfe'ly  old  rubber  mattin',"  she  uttered 
through  the  fabric,  and  started  toward  the  door 
way.  Bean  observed  that  incoming  diners  anx 
iously  made  way  for  her.  He  followed  swiftly 
and  overtook  the  flapper  at  her  door. 

"Maybe  if  you'd  try  a  little "  he  began. 

"Please  go  away,"  pleaded  the  flapper. 

Bean  returned  to  the  ham  and  cabbage. 
"Ought  to  go  into  the  silence,"  he  reflected.  "'S 
all  she  needs.  Fixed  me  all  right." 

After  his  hearty  luncheon  he  ventured  on  deck. 
It  was  undeniably  rougher,  but  he  felt  no  fear. 
The  breeze  being  cold,  he  went  below  for  his  over 
coat. 

Watkins  of  Hartford  —  or  Adams,  as  he  per 
sisted  in  calling  himself  —  reclined  in  his  berth, 
his  unlocked  treasures  carelessly  scattered  about 
him. 

"Hold  fast  to  the  all  good,"  counselled  Bean 
revengefully. 

"Uh  —  hah!"  said  Watkins  or  Adams,  not 
doing  so. 

Bean  fled.  Everybody  was  getting  it.  The 
little  old  steamer  was  becoming  nothing  but  a 
plague-ship. 

"'As  a  man  thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he/"  he 
muttered,  wondering  if  the  words  meant  anything. 


290  BUNKER  BEAN 

Then,  in  the  fulness  of  his  returned  strength,  he 
was  appalled  anew  by  the  completeness  of  his  own 
tragedy.  He  had  become  once  more  insignificant. 
Forever,  now,  he  must  be  afraid  of  policemen  and 
all  earthly  powers.  People  in  crowds  would  dent 
his  hat  and  take  his  new  watches.  He  must  never 
again  carry  anything  but  a  dollar  watch. 

And  the  Breedes  saw  through  him.  He  must 
have  confessed  everything  back  at  that  table  when 
he  had  felt  so  inscrutably  buoyant.  Once  in  Paris 
they  would  have  him  arrested.  They  might  even 
have  him  put  in  irons  before  the  ship  landed. 

And  back  in  the  steam-heated  apartment  lay 
that  mutilated  head,  a  sheer  fabrication  of  papier- 
mache.  He  wondered  if  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  swept 
it  out  .  .  .  the  head  that  had  meant  so  much 
to  him.  There  was  no  hope  any  more.  If  he 
were  still  free  in  Paris  he  would  have  one  look  at 
that  tomb,  and  then  .  .  .  well,  he  had  had  his 
day. 

Two  days  later  the  little  old  steamer  debarked 
many  passengers  in  the  harbour  of  Cherbourg, 
carelessly  confiding  them  to  a  much  littler  and 
much  older  steamer  that  transported  them  to  the 
actual  land.  Among  these  were  a  feebly  explod 
ing  father,  a  weak  but  faithful  mother,  and  the 
swathed  wrecks  of  the  Demon  and  the  flapper. 

Then  began  a  five-hour  train-ride  to  the  one 
time  capital  of  a  famous  upstart.  There  was  but 
little  talk  among  the  members  of  the  party.  Bean 
kept  grimly  to  himself  because  the  only  friendly 
member  slept.  He  studied  her  pale,  drawn  face. 


BUNKER  BEAN  291 

She  had  indeed  managed  well,  but  his  own  down 
fall  had  thwarted  her.  He  was  a  nobody.  They 
were  doubtless  right  in  wanting  to  keep  him  from 
her.  Yet  he  would  see  that  tomb,  and  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment. 

At  eleven  that  night  they  reached  the  capital. 
A  dispiriting  silence  was  maintained  to  the  doors 
of  a  hotel.  The  women  drooped  in  chairs. 
Breede  acquainted  the  reception  committee  of  a 
Paris  hostelry  with  the  party's  needs  as  to  cham 
bers. 

Thereupon  they  discovered  one  of  the  party  to 
be  missing.  No  one  had  seen  him  since  entering. 
They  were  excited  by  this,  all  but  the  flapper. 

"  I  don't  blame  him,"  averred  the  flapper.  .  .  . 
"Tagging  us!  You  let  him  alone!  I  shall  per 
fectly  not  worry  if  he  doesn't  come  home  all 
night.  Do  you  understand  ?  And  when  he  does 
come " 

"Not  safe,"  snapped  Breede.  "King  of  Egypt, 
Napoleon  .  .  .  not  after  money,  just  prin 
ciple  of  thing.  Chap's  nutty  —  talk'n'  like  that!" 

"Good  night!"  snapped  the  flapper  in  her  turn. 


XV 

HE     HAD     walked     quickly    away    while 
porters  were  collecting  the  bags.     "Keep 
on  the  main  street,"  he  thought,  plung 
ing  ahead.     He  did  not  change  this  plan  until  he 
discovered  himself  again  at  the  door  of  that  hotel 
he  meant  to  leave.     It  faced  a  circle,  and  he  had 
traversed  this.     He  fled  down  a  cross-street  and 
again  felt  free. 

For  hours  he  walked  the  lighted  avenues,  or 
sat  moodily  on  wayside  benches,  and  at  length, 
on  a  rustic  seat  screened  by  shrubbery  in  a  little 
park,  he  dozed. 

He  awoke  in  the  early  light,  stretched  legs  and 
arms  luxuriously  and  again  walked.  He  saw  it 
was  five  o'clock.  He  was  thrilled  now  by  the 
morning  beauty  of  the  Corsican's  city,  all  gray 
and  green  in  the  flooding  sun.  And  the  streets 
had  filled  with  a  voluble  traffic  that  affected  him 
pleasantly.  Every  one  seemed  to  speak  gayly  t* 
every  one.  Two  cab-drivers  exchanged  swift 
incivilities,  but  in  a  quite  perfunctory  way,  witk 
evident  good-will. 

Walking  aimlessly  as  yet  —  it  was  too  early 
for  tombs  —  he  came  again  to  that  hotel  on  the 
circle.  They  were  asleep  in  there.  Little  they'd 
worried  —  glad  to  be  so  easily  rid  of  him. 

292 


BUNKER  BEAN  293 

Then  he  noticed  at  the  circle's  centre  a  lofty 
column  wrought  in  bronze  with  infinite  small 
detail.  Surmounting  that  column  was  the  figure 
of  the  Corsican.  An  upstart  who  had  prevailed! 

He  left  the  circle,  lest  he  be  apprehended  by 
the  Breedes.  Soon  he  was  again  in  that  vast 
avenue  of  the  park-places  where  he  had  slept. 
And  now,  far  off  on  this  splendid  highway,  he 
descried  a  mighty  arch.  Sternly  gray  and  beau 
tiful  it  was.  And  when,  standing  under  it,  he 
looked  aloft  to  its  mighty  facade,  its  grandeur 
seemed  threatening  to  him.  He  knew  what  that 
arch  was  —  another  monument  imposed  upon  the 
city  by  the  imperial  assassin  —  without  royal 
lineage  since  the  passing  of  Ram-tah. 

"Some  class  to  that  upstart!"  he  muttered. 
And  if  Napoleon  had  been  no  one,  was  it  not 
probable  that  Bean  had  not  been  even  Napoleon. 
The  Countess  Casanova  had  doubtless  deceived 
him,  though  perhaps  unintentionally.  She  had 
seemed  a  kind  woman,  he  thought,  but  you 
couldn't  tell  about  her  controls. 

His  mind  was  being  washed  in  that  wondrous 
sunlight. 

He  was  himself  an  upstart.  No  doubt  about 
it.  But  what  of  it?  Here  were  columns  and 
arches  to  commemorate  the  most  egregious  of  all 
upstarts.  Upstarts  were  men  who  believed  in 
themselves. 

He  retraced  his  steps  from  the  arch. 

Curious  thing  that  scoundrel  Watkins  had  kept 
saying  on  the  boat.  "As  a  man  thinketh  in  his 


294  BUNKER  BEAN 

own  heart,  so  is  he."  Must  mean  something. 
What? 

Far  down  that  wide  avenue  he  came  to  a  bridge 
of  striking  magnificence,  beset  with  golden  sculp 
ture.  He  supposed  it  to  be  one  more  tribute 
to  the  sublime  Corsican  who  had  thought  in  his 
heart,  and  was. 

He  had  the  meaning  of  those  words  now. 

He,  Bunker  Bean,  had  believed  himself  to  be 
mean,  insignificant.  And  so  he  had  been  that. 
Then  he  had  come  to  believe  himself  a  king,  and 
straightway  had  he  been  kingly.  The  Corsican, 
detecting  the  falsity  of  some  Ram-tah,  would 
have  gone  on  believing  in  himself  none  the  less. 
It  was  all  that  mattered.  "As  a  man  thinketh 

"  If  you  came  down  to  that,  nobody  needed 

a  Ram-tah  at  all. 

From  the  centre  of  the  bridge  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  there,  far  off,  high  above  all  those  gray 
buildings,  was  the  golden  cross  that  he  knew  to 
surmount  the  tomb.  Sharply  it  glittered  against 
the  blue  of  the  sky. 

"Be  upstart  enough,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "and 
all  things  are  yours.  Believe  yourself  kingly, 
though  your  Ram-tah  come  from  Hartford." 

He  walked  vigorously  toward  that  cross.  It 
often  eluded  him  as  he  puzzled  a  way  through 
the  winding  gray-walled  streets.  More  than 
once  he  was  forced  to  turn  back,  to  make  laborious 
circuits.  But  never  for  long  was  the  cross  out  of 
sight. 

Constantly  as  he  walked  that  new  truth  ran 


BUNKER  BEAN  295 

in  his  mind,  molten,  luminous.  Who  knew  of 
Ram-tah's  fictive  origin,  or  even  of  Ram-tah  at 
all?  No  one  but  a  witty  scoundrel  calling  himself 
Balthasar. 

Bean  had  become  some  one  through  a  belief 
in  himself.  Ram-tah  had  been  a  crude  bit  of 
scaffolding,  and  was  well  out  of  the  way.  The 
confidence  he  had  helped  to  build  would  now  en 
dure  without  his  help.  Be  an  upstart.  A  con 
vinced  upstart.  Such  the  world  accepts. 

Then  he  issued  from  the  maze  of  narrow  streets 
and  confronted  the  tomb.  Through  the  open 
door,  even  at  this  early  hour,  people  went  and 
came.  The  Corsican's  magnetism  prevailed. 
And  he,  Bunker  Bean,  the  lowly,  had  that  same 
power  to  magnetize,  to  charm,  to  affront  the 
world  and  yet  evoke  monuments  —  if  he  could 
only  believe  it. 

He  went  quickly  through  the  iron  gateway,  up 
the  long  walk  and  took  the  imposing  stairway 
in  leaps.  Then,  standing  uncovered  in  that 
wonderfully  lit  room,  he  gazed  down  at  the 
upstart's  mighty  urn. 

Long  he  stood  under  that  spell  of  line  and  colour 
and  magnitude,  lost  in  the  spaciousness  of  it. 
No  Balthasar  had  cheated  here.  There  lay  the 
mighty  and  little  man  who  had  never  lost  belief 
in  himself  —  who  had  been  only  a  little  chastened 
by  an  adversity  due  to  the  craven  world's  fear  of 
his  prowess. 

He  was  quite  unconscious  of  others  beside  him 
who  paid  tribute  there.  He  thought  of  those  last 


296  BUNKER  BEAN 

sad  days  on  that  lonely  island,  the  spirit  still  un 
broken.  His  emotion  surged  to  his  eyes,  threaten 
ing  to  overwhelm  him.  He  gulped  twice  and 
angrily  brushed  away  some  surprising  tears. 

By  his  side  stood  a  white-faced  young  French 
man  with  a  flowing  brown  beard.  He  became 
infected  with  Bean's  emotion.  He  made  no 
pretence  of  brushing  his  tears  aside.  He  frankly 
wept. 

Beyond  this  man  a  stout  motherly  woman, 
with  two  children  in  hand,  was  flooded  by  the  cur 
rent.  She  sobbed  comfortably  and  companion- 
ably.  The  two  children  widened  their  eyes  at 
her  a  moment,  then  fell  to  weeping  noisily. 

Farther  around  the  railing  a  distinguished  look 
ing  old  gentleman  of  soldierly  bearing,  who  wore  a 
tiny  red  ribbon  in  the  lapel  of  his  frock  coat, 
loudly  blew  his  nose  and  pressed  a  kerchief  of 
delicate  weave  to  his  brimming  eyes. 

Beyond  him  a  young  woman  became  stricken 
with  grief  and  was  led  out  by  her  solicitous 
husband,  who  seemed  to  feel  that  a  tomb  was  no 
place  for  her  at  that  time. 

The  exit  of  this  couple  aroused  Bean.  He  cast 
a  quick  glance  upon  the  havoc  he  had  wrought 
and  fled,  wiping  his  eyes. 

Halfway  down  the  steps  he  encountered  the 
alleged  Adams  of  Hartford,  who  had  stopped  to 
open  his  Badaeker  at  the  right  page  before  entering 
the  tomb. 

"A  magnificent  bit  of  architecture,"  said  the 
Hartford  man  instructively. 


BUNKER  BEAN  297 

"Pretty  loud  for  a  tomb,"  replied  Bean  judici 
ally.  He  was  not  going  to  let  this  Watkins,  or 
whatever  his  name  was,  know  what  a  fool  he  had 
made  of  himself  in  there.  Then  he  remembered 
something. 

"Say,"  he  ventured,  "how'd  you  happen  to 
think  up  that  thing  you  were  always  getting  off  to 
me  back  there  on  the  boat  —  about  as  a  man 
thinkethuhe?" 

"Tut-tut-tut!  Really?  But  that  is  from  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  which  should  always  be  read  in 
connection  with  Science  and  Health." 

"  I  must  get  it  —  something  in  that.  Funny 
thing,"  he  added  genially,  "getting  good  stuff  like 
that  out  of  Hartford,  Connecticut." 

He  left  Watkins  or  Adams  staring  after  him  in 
some  bewilderment,  a  forgotten  finger  between 
the  leaves  of  the  Badaeker. 

He  began  once  more  to  lay  a  course  through 
those  puzzling  streets.  He  was  going  to  that 
hotel.  He  was  going  to  be  an  upstart  and  talk 
to  his  own  wife. 

The  tomb  had  cleared  his  brain. 

"I'm  no  king,"  he  thought;  "never  was  a  king; 
more  likely  a  guinea-pig.  But  I'm  some  one 
now,  all  right!  I'll  show  'em;  not  afraid  of  the 
whole  lot  put  together;  face  'em  all." 

He  came  out  upon  the  river  at  last  and  presently 
found  himself  back  in  that  circle  of  the  hotel. 
He  stared  a  while  at  the  bronze  effigy  surmounting 
that  vainglorious  column.  Then  he  drew  a  long 
breath  and  went  into  the  hotel. 


298  BUNKER  BEAN 

A  capable  Swiss  youth  responded  to  his  demand 
to  be  shown  to  his  room,  seeming  to  consider  it 
not  strange  that  Americans  in  Paris  should  now 
and  then  return  to  their  rooms. 

At  the  doorway  of  a  drawing-room  that  looked 
out  upon  the  column  the  Swiss  suggested  coffee  — 
perhaps  ? 

"And  fruit  and  fumed  .  .  .  boiled  eggs  and 
toast  and  all  that  meat  and  stuff,"  supplemented 
Bean  firmly. 

He  tried  one  of  two  doors  that  opened  from  the 
drawing-room  and  exposed  a  bedroom.  His, 
evidently.  There  was  the  little  old  steamer 
trunk.  He  discovered  a  bathroom  adjoining  and 
was  presently  suffering  the  celestial  agonies  of  a 
cold  bath  with  no  waster  to  coerce  him. 

He  dressed  with  indignant  muttering,  and  with 
occasional  glances  out  at  that  supreme  upstart's 
memorial.  He  chose  his  suit  of  the  most  legible 
checks.  He  had  been  a  little  fearful  about  it  in 
New  York.  It  was  rather  advanced,  even  for 
one  of  that  Wall  Street  gang  that  had  netted 
himself  four  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Now  he 
donned  it  intrepidly. 

And,  with  no  emotion  whatever  but  a  certain 
grim  sureness  of  himself,  he  at  last  adjusted  the 
entirely  red  cravat.  He  gloated  upon  this  fla 
grantly.  He  hastily  culled  seven  cravats  of 
neutral  tint  and  hurled  them  contemptuously  into 
a  waste-basket.  Done  with  that  kind ! 

He  heard  a  waiter  in  the  drawing-room  serving 
his  breakfast.  He  drew  on  a  dark-lined  waist- 


BUNKER   BEAN  299 

coat  of  white  pique  —  like  the  one  worn  by  the 
oldest  director  the  day  Ram-tah  had  winked  — 
then  the  perfectly  fitting  coat  of  unmistakable 
checks,  and  went  out  to  sit  at  the  table.  He  was 
resolving  at  the  moment  that  he  would  do  every 
thing  he  had  ever  been  afraid  to  do.  "  'S  only  way 
show  you're  not  afraid,"  he  muttered.  He  was 
wearing  a  cravat  he  had  always  feared  to  wear,  and 
now  he  would  devour  meat  things  for  breakfast, 
whatever  the  flapper  thought  about  it. 

When  he  had  a  little  dulled  the  edge  of  his 
hunger,  he  rang  a  bell. 

"Find  m'  wife,"  he  commanded  the  Swiss  youth, 
only  to  be  met  with  a  look  of  blankness.  He  was 
considering  if  it  might  do  him  good  to  make  a  row 
about  this  —  he  had  always  been  afraid  to  make 
rows  —  but  the  other  door  of  the  drawing-room 
opened.  His  wife  was  found. 

"'S  all  for  's  aft'noon,"  he  exploded  to  the 
servitor,  who  seemed  not  displeased  to  withdraw 
from  this  authoritative  presence.  Then  he  en 
gaged  a  slice  of  bacon  with  a  ruthless  fork. 

"Where  you  been  ?"  he  demanded  of  the  flapper. 
Only  way  to  do  —  go  at  them  hammer  and  tongs ! 

The  flapper  gazed  at  him  from  the  doorway. 
She  was  still  pale  and  there  were  reddened  circles 
about  her  eyes.  The  little  old  rag  of  a  morning 
robe  she  wore  added  to  her  pallor  and  gave  her  an 
unaccustomed  look  of  fragility. 

"Where  you  been  all  the  time  ?"  repeated  her  hus 
band  with  the  arrogance  of  a  confirmed  upstart. 

The  flapper  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  tears, 


300  BUNKER  BEAN 

but  she  came  into  the  room  and  sat  across  the 
table  from  him.  In  spite  of  the  blurring  moisture 
in  her  eyes  he  could  still  read  the  old  look  of  owner 
ship.  Time  had  not  impaired  it. 

"I  just  perfectly  wouldn't  let  them  know  I  felt 
bad,"  she  began.  "I  said  I  was  going  to  sleep 
and  wouldn't  worry  one  bit  if  you  perfectly  never 
came  home  all  night.  And  you  never  did,  because 
I  couldn't  sleep  and  watched  .  .  .  but  I 
wouldn't  let  them  know  it  for  just  perfectly  old 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  And  this  morning  I 
said  I'd  had  a  bully  sleep  and  felt  fit  and  you  had 
a  right  to  go  where  you  wanted  to  and  they  could 
please  mind  their  own  affairs,  and  I  laughed  so  at 
them  when  they  said  they  were  going  for  the 
police " 

"Police,  eh?  Let  'em  bring  their  old  police. 
They  think  I'm  afraid  of  police?"  He  valiantly 
attacked  an  egg. 

"Of  course  not,  stupid,  but  they  thought  you 
might  wander  off  and  get  lost,  like  those  people 
in  the  newspapers  that  wake  up  in  Jersey  City  or 
some  place  and  can't  remember  their  own  names 
or  how  it  happened,  and  they  wanted  the  police 
to  just  perfectly  find  you,  and  I  wanted  them  to, 
too.  I  was  deathly  afraid ' 

"I  know  my  own  name,  all  right.  I'm  little 
Tempest  and  Sunshine;  that's  my  name. 

" but  I  wouldn't  let  them  know  I  was  afraid. 

and  I  laughed  at  them  and  told  them  they  didn't 
know  you  at  all  and  that  you'd  come  home  — 
come  home." 


BUNKER  BEAN  301 

He  found  he  could  strangely  not  be  an  upstart 
another  moment  in  the  presence  of  that  flapper. 
He  was  over  kneeling  beside  her,  reaching  his  arms 
up  about  her,  pressing  her  cheek  down  to  his. 
The  flapper  held  him  tightly  and  wept. 

"There,  there!"  he  soothed  her,  smoothing  the 
golden  brown  hair  that  spilled  about  her  shoulders. 
"No  one  ever  going  to  hurt  you  while  I'm  around. 
You're  the  just  perfectly  dearest,  if  you  come  right 
down  to  it.  Now,  now!  'S  all  right.  Everything 
all  right!" 

"It's  those  perfectly  old  taggers,"  exploded  the 
flapper,  suddenly  recovering  her  true  form,  "just 
furiously  tagging." 

"'S  got  to  stop  right  now,"  declared  Bean, 
rising.  "Wipe  that  egg  off  your  face,  and  let's 
get  out  of  here." 

"London,"  she  suggested  brightly.  "Granny 
has  always " 

"No  London!"  he  broke  in,  visibly  returning 
to  the  Cor^ican  or  upstart  manner.  "And  no 
Grandma,  no  Pops,  no  Moms!  You  and  me  — 
us  —  understand  what  I  mean?  Think  I'm  going 
to  have  my  wife  sloshing  around  over  there,  voting, 
smashing  windows,  getting  run  in  and  sent  to  the 
island  for  thirty  days.  No!  Not  for  little  old 
George  W.Me!" 

"I  never  wanted  to  so  very  much,"  confessed 
the  flapper  with  surprising  meekness.  "You  tell 
where  to  go,  then." 

Bean  debated.  Baseball!  Perhaps  there  would 
be  a  game  on  the  home  grounds  that  day.  Paris 


302  BUNKER  BEAN 

might  be  playing  London  or  St.  Petersburg  or 
Berlin  or  Venice. 

"First  we  go  see  a  ball  game,"  he  said. 

The  flapper  astounded  him. 

"I  don't  think  they  have  it  over  here  —  base 
ball,"  she  observed. 

No  baseball?  She  must  be  crazy.  He  rang  the 
bell. 

The  capable  Swiss  entered.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  he  was  able  to  convince  the  amazed 
American  that  baseball  was  positively  not  played 
on  the  continent  of  Europe.  It  was  monstrous. 
It  put  a  different  aspect  upon  Europe. 

"Makes  no  difference  where  we  go,  then," 
announced  Bean.  "Just  any  little  old  last  year's 
place.  We'll  'lope." 

"Ripping,"  applauded  the  flapper,  with  bright 
ening  eyes. 

"Hurry  and  dress.  I'll  get  a  little  old  car  and 
we'll  beat  it  before  they  get  back.  No  time  for 
trunk;  take  bag." 

Down  in  the  office  he  found  they  made  nothing 
of  producing  little  old  cars  for  the  right  people. 
The  car  was  there  even  as  he  was  taking  the 
precaution  to  secure  a  final  assurance  from  the 
manager  that  Paris  did  not  by  any  chance  play 
London  that  day. 

The  two  bags  were  installed  in  the  ready  car; 
then  a  radiant  flapper  beside  an  amateur  upstart. 
The  driver  desired  instructions. 

"^//y,  ally!"  directed  Bean,  waving  a  vague 
but  potent  hand. 


BUNKER  BEAN  303 

"We've  done  it,"  rejoiced  the  flapper.  "Serve 
the  perfectly  old  taggers  good  and  plenty 
right!" 

Bean  lifted  a  final  gaze  to  the  laurel-crowned 
Believer.  He  knew  that  Believer's  secret  now. 

"What  a  stunning  tie,"  exclaimed  the  flapper. 
"It  just  perfectly  does  something  to  you." 

"  'S  little  old  last  year's  tie,"  said  her  husband 
carelessly. 


At  six-thirty  that  evening  they  were  resting 
on  a  balcony  overlooking  the  garden  of  a  hotel  at 
Versailles.  Back  of  them  in  the  little  parlour  a 
waiter  was  setting  a  most  companionable  small 
table  for  two.  Such  little  sounds  as  he  made 
were  thrilling.  They  liked  the  hotel  much.  Its 
management  seemed  to  have  been  expecting  them 
ever  since  the  building's  erection,  and  to  have  re 
served  precisely  that  nest  for  them. 

They  had  been  "doing"  the  palace.  A  little 
self-conscious,  in  their  first  free  solitude,  they  had 
agreed  that  the  palace  would  be  instructive. 
Through  interminable  galleries  they  had  gone, 
inspecting  portraits  of  the  dead  who  had  made  and 
marred  French  history  .  .  .  led  on  by  a  guide 
whose  amiable  delusion  it  was  that  he  spoke 
English.  The  flapper  had  been  chiefly  exercised 
in  comparing  the  palace,  to  its  disadvantage,  with 
a  certain  house  to  be  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
scenery  and  embellished  with  perfectly  patent 
laundry  tubs. 


304  BUNKER   BEAN 

The  flapper  sighed  in  contentment,  now. 

"  We  needn't  ever  do  it  again/*  she  said.  "How 
they  ever  made  it  in  that  old  barn " 

Bean  had  occupied  himself  in  thinking  it  was 
funny  about  kings.  To  have  been  born  a  king 
meant  not  so  much  after  all.  He  still  dwelt  upon 
it  as  they  sat  looking  down  into  the  shadowed 
garden. 

"There  was  that  last  one,"  he  said  musingly. 
"Born  as  much  a  king  as  any  .  .  .  and 
look  what  they  did  to  him.  Better  man  than  the 
other  two  before  him  .  .  .  they  had  'habits' 
enough,  and  he  was  decent.  But  he  couldn't 
make  them  believe  in  him.  He  couldn't  have  be 
lieved  in  himself  very  hard.  His  picture  looks  like 
a  man  I  know  in  New  York  named  Cassidy 
.  .  .  always  puttering  around,  dead  serious 
about  something  that  doesn't  matter  at  all.  You 
got  to  bluff  people,  and  this  poor  old  dub  didn't 
know  how.  .  .  so  they  clipped  his  head  off  for 
it.  Two  or  three  times  a  good  bluff  would  have 
saved  him." 

"No  bath,  no  furnace,"  murmured  the  flapper. 
"That  perfectly  reminds  me,  soon  as  we  get  back 


"Then,"  pursued  Bean,  "along  comes  Mr. 
little  old  George  W.  Napoleon  Bluff  and  makes 
them  eat  out  of  his  hand  in  about  five  minutes. 
Didn't  he  walk  over  them,  though?  And  they 
haven't  quit  thanking  him  for  it  yet.  Saw  a  lot 
of  'em  snivelling  over  him  at  that  tomb  this  morn 
ing.  Think  he'd  died  only  yesterday.  You  know, 


BUNKER  BEAN  305 

I  don't  blame  him  so  much  for  a  lot  of  things  he 
did  —  fighting  and  women  and  all  that.  He 
knew  what  they'd  do  to  him  if  he  ever  for  one 
minute  quit  bluffing.  You  know,  he  was  what  I 
call  an  upstart." 

The  flapper  stole  a  hand  into  his  and  sighed 
contentedly. 

"You've  perfectly  worked  it  all  out,  haven't 
you?"  she  said. 

" — —  and  if  you  come  right  down  to  it,  I'm 
nothing  but  'n  upstart  myself." 

"Oh,  splash!"  said  the  flapper,  in  loving  refuta 
tion. 

"'Sail,"  he  persisted;  "just  'n  upstart.  Of 
course  I  don't  have  to  be  one  with  you.  I  wouldn't 
be  afraid  to  tell  you  anything  in  the  world;  but 
those  others,  now;  every  one  else  in  the  world 
except  you;  I'll  show  'em  who's  little  old  George 
W.  Upstart  —  old  man  Upstart  himself,  that's 
what!" 

"You're  a  king,"  declared  the  flapper  in  a  burst 
of  frankness. 

"Eh?"  said  Bean,  a  little  startled. 

"Just  a  perfectly  little  old  king,"  persisted  the 
flapper  with  dreamy  certitude.  "Never  fooled 
little  George  W.  Me.  Knew  it  the  very  first 
second.  Went  over  me  just  like  that." 

"Oh,  I'm  no  king;  never  was  a  king;  rabbit,  I 
guess.  Little  old  perfectly  upstart  rabbit,  that's 
what!" 

"What  am  I?"  asked  the  flapper  pointedly. 

"Little  old  flippant  flapper,  that's   what!    But 


3o6  BUNKER  BEAN 

you're  my  Chubbins  just  the  same;  my  Chub- 
bins!"  and  he  very  softly  put  his  hand  to  her 
cheek. 

"  Monsieur  et  Madame  sont  servi"  said  the  waiter. 
He  was  in  the  doorway  but  discreetly  surveyed 
the  evening  sky  through  an  already  polished  wine 
glass  held  well  aloft. 


The  three  perfectly  taggers  meeting  their  just 
due,  consulted  miserably  as  they  gathered  about 
a  telephone  in  Paris  the  following  morning.  The 
Demon  had  answered  the  call. 

"Says  she  has  it  all  reasoned  out,"  announced 
the  Demon. 

"  'S  what  she  said  before,"  grunted  Breede. 
"Tha's  nothing  new." 

"And  she  says  we're  snoop-cats  and  we  might 
as  well  go  back  home  —  now,"  continued  the 
Demon.  "Says  she's  got  the  —  u-u-m-mm!  — 
says  to  perfectly  quit  tagging." 

"Nothing  can  matter  now,"  said  the  bereaved 
mother. 

"He's  talking  himself,"  said  the  Demon. 
"Mercy  he's  got  a  new  voice  .  .  .  sounds 
like  another  man.  He  says  if  we  don't  beat  it 
out  of  here  by  the  next  boat  —  he  can  imagine 
nothing  of  less  —  something  or  other  I  can't 
hear " 

" consequence,"  snapped  Breede. 

"Yes,  that's  it;  and  now  he's  laughing  and  tell* 
ing  her  she's  a  perfectly  flapper." 


BUNKER  BEAN  307 

"Oh,  my  poor  child,"  murmured  the  mother. 

"Puzzle  t'  me,"  said  Breede.  "I  swear  I  can't 
make  out  just  how  many  kinds  of  a " 

"James!"  said  his  wife  sternly,  and  indicated 
the  presence  of  several  interested  foreigners. 


THE    END 


STORIES   OF    RARE    CHARM    BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PQRTER 

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THE  HARVESTER 


Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  It 
a  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  who  draws 
his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother , 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  i 
it  but  the  splendid  figure  of  this  man,  with 
his  sure  grip  on  life,  his  superb  optimism, 
and  his  almost  miraculous  knowledge  of 
nature  secrets,  it  would  be  notable.  But 
when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "Medicine 
Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  sound, 
healthy,  large  outdoor  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has 
come  to  him  —  there  begins  a  romance, 
troubled  and  interrupted,  yet  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 

FRECKLES.       Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford 

Freckles  is  a'nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  iray  IB, 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his  love* 
story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  realsentiment. 

A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable, 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American,  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 

It  is  an  inspiring  story  of  a  life  worth  while  and  the  rich  beautie* 
of  the  out-of-doors  are  strewn  through  all  its  pages. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 

Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp.    Design  and  decorations  by 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour. 

The  scene  of  this  charming,  idyllic  love  story  is  laid  in  Centrai 
Indiana.  The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-  * 
sacrificing  love;  the  friendship  that  gives  freely  without  return,  and 
the  love  that  seeks  first  the  happiness  of  the  object.  The  novel  is 
brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of  nature,  and  its  pathoa 
and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all 

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AMELIA  E.  BARK'S  STORIES 

DELIGHTFUL    TALES    OF   OLD    NEW  YORK 
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THE  BOW  OF  ORANGE  RIBBON.    With  Frontispiece. 

This  exquisite  little  romance  opens  in  New  York  City  in  "the  ten 
der  grace"  of  a  May  day  long  past,  when  the  old  Dutch  families 
clustered  around  Bowling  Green.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  romance 
of  Katherine,  a  young  Dutch  girl  who  has  sent,  as  a  love  token,  to  a 
young  English  officer,  the  bow  of  orange  ribbon  which  she  has  worn 
for  years  as  a  sacred  emblem  on  the  day  of  St.  Nicholas.  After  the 
bow  of  ribbon  Katherine's  heart  soon  flies.  Unlike  her  sister,  whose 
heart  has  found  a  safe  resting  place  among  her  own  people,  Katherine's 
heart  must  rove  from  home — must  know  to  the  utmost  all  that  life 
holds  of  both  joy  and  sorrow.  And  so  she  goes  beyond  the  seas,  leav 
ing  her  parents  as  desolate  as  were  Isaac  and  Rebecca  of  old. 

THE    MAID    OF    MAIDEN    LANE;       A  Love  Story.      With 
Illustrations  by  S.  M.  Arthur. 

A  sequel  to  "The  Bow  of  Orange  Ribbon."  The  time  is  the 
gracious  days  of  Seventeen-hundred  and  ninety-one,  when  "The 
Marseillaise"  was  sung  with  the  American  national  airs,  and  the 
spirit  affected  commerce,  politics  and  conversation.  In  the  midst  of 
this  period  the  romance  of  "The  Sweetest  Maid  in  Maiden  Lane"  un 
folds.  Its  chief  charm  lies  in  its  historic  and  local  color. 

SHEILA  VEDDER.     Frontispiece  in  colors  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

A  love  story  set  in  the  Shetland  Islands. 

Among  the  simple,  homely  folk  who  dwelt  there  Jan  Vedder  was 
raised;  and  to  this  island  came  lovely  Sheila  J  arrow.  Jan  knew,  when 
first  he  beheld  her,  that  she  was  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  for 
him,  and  to  the  winning  of  her  love  he  set  himself.  The  long  days  of 
summer  by  the  sea,  the  nights  under  the  marvelously  soft  radiance  of 
Shetland  moonlight  passed  in  love-making,  while  with  wonderment 
the  man  and  woman,  alien  in  traditions,  adjusted  themselves  to  each 
other.  And  the  day  came  when  Jan  and  Sheila  wed,  and  then  a 
sweeter  love  story  is  told. 

TRINITY  BELLS.      With  eight  Illustrations  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

The  story  centers  around  the  life  of  little  Katryntje  Van  Clyffe, 
who,  on  her  return  home  from  a  fashionable  boarding  school,  faces 
poverty  and  heartache.  Stout  of  heart,  she  does  not  permit  herseli 
to  become  discouraged  even  at  the  news  of  the  loss  of  her  father  and 
his  ship  "The  Golden  Victory."  The  story  of  Katryntje's  life  was 
interwoven  with  the  music  of  the  Trinity  Bells  which  eventually 
heralded  her  wedding  day. 

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ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

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THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS~~ 
Colored  frontispiece  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Most  of  the  action  of  this  story  takes  place  near  the  turbulent 
Mexican  border  of  the  present  day.  A  New  York  society  girl  buys 
a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  warfare.  Her  loyal 
cowboys  defend  her  property  from  bandits,  and  her  superintendent 
rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  them.  A  surprising  climax 
brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

DESERT  GOLD 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

Another  fascinating  story  of  the  Mexican  border.  Two  men, 
lost  in  the  desert,  discover  gold  when,  overcome  by  weakness,  they 
can  go  no  farther.  The  rest  of  the  story  describes  the  recent  uprising 
along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding  of  the  gold  which  the 
two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

Illustrated  by  Douglas  Duer. 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when 
Mormon  authority  ruled.  In  the  persecution  of  Jane"  Withersteen,  a 
rich  ranch  owner,  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  methods  employed  by 
the  invisible  hand  of  the  Mormon  Church  to  break  her  will. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

Illustrated  with  photograph  reproductions. 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo 
Jones,  known  as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the 
Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "that  wonderful  country  of  yellow 
crags,  deep  canons  and  giant  pines."  It  is  a  fascinating  story. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Jacket  in  color.     Frontispiece. 

This  big  human  drama  is  played  in  the  Painted  Desert.  A 
lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a 
young  New  Englander.  The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands 
that  the  girl  shall  become  the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons — 

Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  sensational,  big  selling  story. 

BETTY  ZANE 

Illustrated  by  Louis  F.  Grant. 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beauti 
ful  young  sister  of  old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 
Life  along  the  frontier,  attacks  by  Indians,  Betty's  heroic  defense 
of  the  beleaguered  garrison  at  Wheeling,  the  burning  of  the  Fort, 
and  Betty's  final  race  for  life,  make  up  this  never-to-be-forgotten  story. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,   NEW  YORK 


GROSSET&  DUNLAP'S 

DRAMATIZED    NOVELS 

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WITHIN  THE  LAW.     By  Bayard  Veiller  &  Marvin  Dana. 
Illustrated  by  \Vm.  Charles  Cooke. 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  immensely  successful  play  which  ran 
for  two  years  in  New  York  and  Chicago. 

The  plot  of  this  powerful  novel  is  of  a  young  woman's  revenge 
directed  against  her  employer  who  allowed  her  to  be  sent  to  prison 
for  three  years  on  a  charge  of  theft,  of  which  she  was  innocent. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  MARY.     By  Robert  Carlton  Brown. 
Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

This  is  a  narrative  of  a  young:  and  innocent  country  girl  who  i? 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  very  heart  of  New  York,  "the  land  of  her 
dreams/'  where  she  is  exposed  to  all  sorts  of  temptations  and  dangers. 

The  story  of  Mary  is  being  told  in  moving  pictures  and  played  in 
theatres  all  over  the  world. 

THE  RETURN  OF  PETER  GRIMM.      By  David  Belasco. 
Illustrated  by  John  Rae, 

This  is  a  novelization  of  the  popular  play  in  which  David  War, 
field,  as  Old  Peter  Grimm,  scored  such  a  remarkable  success. 

The  story  is  spectacular   and  extremely  pathetic  but  withal, 
powerful,  both  as  a  book  and  as  a  play. 
THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.    By  Robert  Hichens.; 

This  novel  is  an  intense,  glowing  epic  of  the  great  desert,  suiulit 
barbaric,  with  its  marvelous  atmosphere  of  vastness  and  loneliness, 

It  is  a  book  of  rapturous  beauty,  vivid  in  word  painting.    The  play 
has  been  staged  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 
BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 

The  whole  world  has  placed  this  famous  Religious-Historical  Ro 
mance  on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  tim« 
has  reached.  Tne  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination.  A  tre 
mendous  dramatic  success. 

BOUGHT  AISiD  PAID  FOR.     By  George  Broadhurst  and  Arthur 
Hornblow.          Illustrated  with  scenes  from  the  play. 

A  stupendous  arraignment  of  modern  marriage  which  has  created 
an  interest  on  the  stage  that  is  almost  unparalleled.  The  scenes  are  laid 
in  New  York,  and  deal  with  conditions  among  both  the  ncn  and  poor. 

The  interest  of  the  story  turns  on  the  day-by-day  -Developments 
which  show  the  young  wife  the  price  she  has  paid. ( 

lit  for  eom&ete  fret  list  of  G.  &  D.  Pofalar  Copyright*  *"*'*» 

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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


RECD  LD 

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JUL8    1963 

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LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


984475 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


